


A Mind to Know You

by Adoxography



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Catholic Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-02-07 05:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Set during the six months on the road. Tomas wonders how many times he can test God's patience before he is beyond redemption. Guilt, secrets, and a case of demonic possession.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Opinions stated by characters in this fic do not necessarily reflect the feelings of the writer. There is a reason for the Catholic Guilt tag. Just be forewarned that there is some internalized fuckery. 
> 
> As Always, thank you to Shell_and_Bone for her patience and amazing beta skills, any mistakes left are mine since I edited again after she checked it over and posted without sending it back.
> 
> ***EDIT***: I goofed and for some reason when I posted this this morning, I posted my first draft, I've updated it as of 730pm PST but if you read it before now... well it's better now I promise haha.

_ Grant me, O Lord my God, _ __  
_ a mind to know you, _ __  
_ a heart to seek you, _ __  
_ wisdom to find you, _ __  
_ conduct pleasing to you, _ __  
_ faithful perseverance in waiting for you, _ __  
_ and a hope of finally embracing you. _ __  
_  
_ __ Amen

 

_ —Prayer of St. Thomas of Aquinas (1225-1274 AD) _

  
  


That the walls have been recently painted give Tomas more pause than if they’d been stained and peeling. He smells the sharp scent of bleach, and the bathroom is ancient but spotless. It’s a perfectly ordinary motel room in a perfectly ordinary motel off the I-5. The ground floor windows have bars. 

“Someone died in here,” says Marcus, before Tomas makes any comment.

Two beds— one near the bathroom where the chemical scent seems to be wafting from, and one near the door. Both sport matching blankets too thin to actually warm a person through the night, and stiff white sheets. Tomas eyes them both warily but won’t stoop so low as to check the mattresses for stains. If he loses that particular coin toss, he’d rather live in ignorance.

“How can you be so sure?” he replies, less casually than he’d intended.

Marcus fixes him with a look, a look Tomas has grown quite used to these past months; it is Marcus’  _ “don’t be so naive, Tomas”  _ stare. The look is both smug and amused; his mouth curls up to one side and a single brow raises. It should be ridiculous. Tomas can’t help but feel cowed by it. He resists the urge to apologize, though he’s sure Marcus would just wave it off.

“Any word from Father Bennett?” Tomas asks to break the silence. He drops his bag on the bed closer to the door. He thinks he has a fifty-fifty chance that someone actually died on a bed, and then another fifty-fifty that it was this bed. They’re not bad odds considering the sorts of odds he’s been betting against in recent weeks.

Marcus shakes his head. “No, he’s trying to keep a low profile. We might have a few days yet before we hear anything. Best rest up.” Marcus drops his own bag on the floor. The carpet is a tight brown weave with speckles specifically designed to hide stains.Tomas forces himself not to look too intently in case he actually finds something. Marcus disappears into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. After a moment, Tomas hears the shower start.

Alone in the room, Tomas gingerly lowers himself onto the bed. He’s sore everywhere. His muscles ache from hours sitting in a rusty truck old enough to share his birthday. The nap he stole on the drive has done nothing for Tomas’ aching back; he’d woken as they pulled into the motel parking lot with drool crusted on his cheek and a crick in his neck that had taken a full minute to work out.

He lays back on the bed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, pressing down until the lights behind them start to flash. His eyes ache, his head aches, his mouth is dry. His aborted sleep has made his limbs heavy, but it’s two in the afternoon and if he goes back to sleep now, he’ll be wide awake by the time he needs to sleep again.

Tomas doesn’t understand how Marcus never seems to have this problem. They can stay awake for days at a time, taking short, alternating naps at best, and Marcus never seems to waver. By the third day, Tomas is usually so exhausted he feels ill, and Marcus relegates him to reading directly from the Bible out of arms’ reach of the whatever new monstrosity they are facing. Marcus is the one who throws himself into the thick of it, holding the thrashing creature at bay while Tomas shouts holy words — and he has the gall to accuse Tomas of being reckless. Marcus is fearless, unconquerable; whenever he feels doubts in their mission, he remembers Marcus using all his weight to hold the demons at bay, deep voice bellowing out the word of God.    

Tomas rolls over onto his side, kicking off his shoes and pulling his knees up to his chest. He should get some water, something to calm the pounding in his head. They might have advil in one of the bags, if he can force himself upright to look.

He hears the shower turn off before he can make up his mind. He waits and, sure enough, the bathroom door creaks open and the bedsprings of the other bed screech under Marcus’ weight.

“Alright Tomas?” he asks.

Tomas scrubs his hands across his face, eyes still squeezed shut against the mounting headache. It doesn’t seem right that it should get worse just as he’s getting a chance to rest.

“Do you have painkillers in your bag, or are they in mine?” he groans.

“Dunno, have you looked?”

His silence seems to be the only answer Marcus needs. The bedsprings squeak again under Marcus’ shifting weight. Tomas hears him unzip his bag and begin to dig. There is a rattle before the plastic container hits his backside. Tomas groans and rolls onto his back, fumbling for the bottle. Marcus chuckles at him, shaking his head and Tomas glares, his hand caught under the small of his back, clutching the tiny plastic container.

Marcus sits on the edge of his own bed, body turned so he can look, and presumably laugh, at Tomas. He wears a self-satisfied little smirk that is entirely unbecoming on a man of God. His towel is wrapped loosely around his waist and his pajama shirt is completely unbuttoned. Marcus is handsome, not just for a man in his fifties. He’s grown a little soft around the middle but his shoulders are strong and he carries himself with a confidence Tomas can only hope to one day match.

“Tomas?” Marcus raises a brow, head tilting.

Tomas fumbles with the plastic cap, and takes two dry. Sugar coated so they go down easier. He swallows and looks up at the spackled ceiling.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks.

“Not really?”

Tomas sits up, though his head still throbs like his brain is trying to push its way out of his skull. He rolls his shoulders, cracking the joints. Wincing, he reaches for his bag and pulls out a relatively clean teeshirt and sweatpants.

“My turn,” he says, breezing past Marcus for the shower.

“Mnhmn,” is the only reply. Tomas hears the television switch on before the door clicks shut behind him and the overhead fan drowns out the noise.

The bathroom is still steamy from Marcus, the mat on the floor still damp with his footprints, the mirror still fogged. The sliver of pre-wrapped soap sits on top of it’s ripped wax packaging at the edge of the tub; there is no complimentary shampoo, though. Tomas sighs.

The water is hot and stays that way, even when the pressure from the showerhead alternates from stinging to almost trickling. Tomas lets himself indulge in the rare pleasure of consistent temperature, relaxing into the heat. He misses his shower back home. It wasn’t a perfect apartment, old and infested with silverfish. The heat was centrally controlled and either too cold or too hot; but his shower was probably what heaven felt like, perfect water pressure and exact temperature control, everything a man could ever want.

It’s only been three months. He reminds himself to stay realistic, to not pine too much for the comforts of his city, of his parish. He misses Olivia, she’s more than certainly worried sick about him. It’s her nature to worry at the best of times and disappearing without a word doesn’t exactly count as the best of times. He misses Luis. He’ll be turning twelve in a few months and Tomas hopes he’ll be able to sneak a phone call as long as he doesn’t linger too long and smashes the sim card after.

He misses coming home and picking up the mail. What he and Jessica did together was wrong, it was unfair to both of them, unfair to her husband too; but the letters were nice. They gave him distance, the letters let them be friends, and he and Jessica had both needed a friend. He cannot change the past, he can’t change what they did or make it right, but he can ask God his forgiveness for his weakness. Maybe one day he can apologize to her, too.

God, but she was beautiful. She was beautiful and she’d loved him in a way he’d never felt before. It wasn’t just the physical act of lovemaking, it was—

The soap in his hand is rapidly disappearing, he’s not sure how long he’s been running it over his thighs and groin but he quickly uses the last of it on the rest of his body. Scrubbing the rest of him doesn't help. There is no one around to notice, yet he is struck mostly by embarrassment. It dampens the hot spike in his belly but not by much, the steamy water is enough to keep him from controlling his body.

Lust is a sin, and regardless of intent, lustful thoughts about a married woman are sinful. He’s betrayed by his own mind when instead of conjuring the image of her walking away, he is bombarded with the memory of the way her hair smelled when he was pressed against her back, holding her in the night. His teeth feel like they are going to pierce right through his lip. He is trying to desperately to stay quiet as his hand slips down to his thighs again.

He should finish this as quickly as possible, kneel beside his bed, and ask God to forgive him. He braces his hand against the cracked green and white tile. He swallows a gasp when he remembers her hand in the place of his own. He can’t do this, he can’t, it’s wrong, it’s a violation. His hand moves and he edges closer to the brink, her lips in his memory pressed to the corner of his mouth. He should be able to control his own thoughts of all things. He pushes her away, eyes squeezed shut and forehead resting against his arm. Instead his mind produces strong, familiar, hands — hands too large to belong to Jessica — that run down his sides, holding him steady. Calloused and rough, the phantom hands move around to his belly and up his torso over his chest. Tomas covers his cry with a cough. The water rinses the evidence down the drain.    

He stops feeling so dizzy when he sits down at the edge of the tub to towel himself dry. He scrubs a rough, faded green towel through his hair and over his face. Even though he’s just cleaned his body, he feels sticky and unpleasant. Shame curls hot and tight in his gut; he’s glad the mirror is fogged so he doesn’t have to look at himself. Clean clothes make him feel marginally better, but not by much. He brushes his teeth with the complimentary motel toothbrush. The toothpaste tastes like minty sugar.

In the heat of the foggy bathroom, his exhaustion from before catches up with him. Tomas breathes a deep sigh, gathering up his filthy clothes and walking back into the chill of the motel room. He shivers as cool air seeps through his clothes, and his skin prickles as it raises with goosebumps. He trips over Marcus who is sprawled half off his bed, long legs jutting out right in front of the bathroom door.

“Careful,” says Marcus, making no effort to sit up or move his limbs.

Tomas gathers up the clothes he’d dropped in his desperate attempt not to sprawl on his face. He bites his tongue. He will not be baited. He dumps his laundry at the end of his bed, folding them and tucking each item beside his bag to deal with in the morning. Marcus doesn’t seem to have the same standards for his own clothes; Tomas can see laundry sticking haphazardly out of the lumpy duffel bag, the arm of a cotton shirt trailing on the floor.

“Toss me the pills? I can feel a headache of my own coming on.” Marcus tilts his head back so he can look at Tomas upside down, extending a hand out to reach over his head with an open palm.

Tomas grabs the bottle off his bed, though he doesn’t throw them as requested. Too tired to trust his aim, Tomas leans over and places them directly in Marcus’ waiting palm. His other hand shoots out to clasp Tomas’ hand. Marcus gives it a firm squeeze.

“You did good today.”

Marcus lets go and it’s all Tomas can do to not leap back like he’s been burned.

“Thank you.” His voice is even, he manages a yawn.

“I’m going to bed,” he announces, despite the early hour.

“Right.” Marcus doesn’t move to turn his own light off, but Tomas crawls under the covers of his own bed, his feet already freezing. He switches his light off and flips over to face the dim shadow of his side of the room, his heart pounding in his throat.

It seems impossible he hadn’t noticed right away. He keeps his breathing even and shallow. He lays still but not stiff. Marcus can’t read his mind, he reminds himself. Marcus doesn’t know. He needs to rest; the mind is said to do strange things when deprived of sleep. The sticky feeling from before is back. He feels it all over his skin and hates the places where his flesh touches.

Jessica is a thousand miles away in Chicago and Tomas had tried to do right by her. He’d forced the image of her from his mind even as he’d succumbed to his baser desires. He’d found release without her in the end, but that didn’t clear his conscience, not when the phantom hands that had pushed him over the edge belonged to Marcus Keane.

* * *

Tomas misses Chicago less the longer he is away, especially the closer it gets to summer. Thinking about it brings the phantom smell of stinking hot garbage on the side of the road, sweat dripping down his back as he stood in the sun wearing all black, greeting an equally sticky congregation as they piled into the stuffy church.

June comes with a heatwave that has Marcus groaning in the passenger seat, cranking the air conditioner even though it makes the car smell like burning plastic. California in the summer isn’t quite like Hollywood had him picturing, at least not this far from the ocean, no breeze to cool the desert air. On the positive side, asking for Mexican food didn’t get them directed to the nearest Taco Bell.  

“England is a miserable country, but at least the weather is tolerable,” Marcus grumbles. He’s down to a button up with most of the buttons undone, leaving his pale chest and sparse hair damp under the mid afternoon sun.

“How did you survive Mexico? Or Africa?” Tomas laughs, taking another sip of his rapidly warming beer.

The patio is packed, even for 2pm on a Thursday. All the seats with shade have long been snatched up by wiley locals, leaving Tomas to grin and bear it and Marcus to swelter and scowl.

“Well, I wasn’t outside much, and usually I had more important things to think about than how bloody hot it was.” Marcus reeks a sweet chemical scent of cheap sunscreen, his hands greasy with it. His beer glass slips and he misses his mouth, spilling down his front. Marcus curses and Tomas looks away to hide his laugh.

“I look like a sorority girl,” Marcus complains, gesturing to his sweaty, and now beer soaked shirt. White was perhaps a poor choice considering how badly Marcus reacts to the heat. The soaking cotton clings to his skinny chest.

“You’ve been with the church since you were twelve, what would you know about sorority girls?” asks Tomas, incredulous.

“More than you, probably,” Marcus shoots back. “Did an exorcism on one once.”

“I’m picturing you trying to interview her classmates at a frat party.” Tomas finishes his beer and reaches across the table to snatch tortilla chips off Marcus’ plate.

“Pretty much how it went,” answers Marcus in a tone so flat Tomas is pretty inclined to believe him.

“And you didn’t get arrested?” Tomas scoffs.

“Wore a leather jacket, they all thought I was her dealer.” Marcus shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. “Honestly, someone probably should have called the police.”

“You’re a terrible priest.” Tomas grins but his smile fades when Marcus’ does.

“Not much of a priest anymore.”  

Tomas looks down at his empty glass and wishes he hadn’t finished it quite so quickly.

“I’m sorry—”

“Not your fault,” replies Marcus with a wave of his hand.

“If I hadn’t—”

“Don’t.”

Tomas can’t seem to tear his gaze away as Marcus’ eyes focus all their intensity on him. “You did the right thing.”

Tomas nods. Speaking seems to be an impossible task. He tries to drink from his empty glass. Marcus reaches across the table and swaps their glasses, sliding his half finished one to Tomas.

“Watery garbage anyways.” Marcus smirks, his melancholy gone, wiped away by a roguish smile. There is a greasy lip print on the other side of the glass from Marcus’ drugstore chapstick.

“Cheers,” says Tomas, draining the last of it. Marcus watches him drink it and Tomas can’t make himself look away and pretend he doesn’t notice. He puts the glass back down on the coaster. “Should we go?”

“I’ll get the bill,” Marcus replies, waving Tomas off. “You go start the air conditioner. The car’s been in the sun for over an hour.”

Tomas nods, grateful for the moment’s respite. He can feel Marcus’ eyes on his back as he leaves and despite the heat he feels a shiver run down his spine.

* * *

 

Sometimes Tomas feels as though they are living the same time loop over and over, week after week, exorcism after exorcism. They’ve done six since Chicago. Most cases don’t take as long as Casey Rance’s, and Tomas is grateful for that. They’re getting better at working as a team; Marcus is so much easier to read now. 

Marcus is stoic but not unreachable; he will see reason if Tomas is insistent enough. Tomas is being very insistent right now as he cleans the bite mark on Marcus’ hand. Not the first, and it certainly won’t be the last. There are pale crescent scars on his hands from years of abuse.

“You can stop fussing, I’ve had my shots,” Marcus chuckles then hisses when Tomas wipes the skin clean with an alcohol soaked cotton swab.

“How it it you’re always the one getting the worst of the abuse?”

The teeth only broke skin in a few places, it doesn’t take long to wipe clean. Tomas tapes fresh gauze over Marcus’ hand.

“I suppose I ask for it?” Marcus answers after a long pause.

“How do you mean?”

Marcus shrugs and shakes his head. Tomas almost pushes, but Marcus stands and turns before he can get the words out.

“I’m going out for a bit. Don’t wait up.”

Something about Marcus’ tone keeps Tomas from asking for details. If anyone understands the need to be alone, it’s Tomas.

Alone himself, Tomas glances at the clock and realizes that despite how tired he is, it’s only quarter to seven. The sky outside is still bright and while his body aches and protests being upright, his thoughts buzz like hornets trapped in a mason jar. Rest is rare, and it’s troublesome that he still struggles to take advantage of it. Marcus seems to have no troubles, years of practice in letting go. Not that Marcus doesn’t care. If anything, Marcus cares more than just about anyone Tomas has ever met, but he has experience in compartmentalizing. Tomas is… not quite there yet. He lays awake for days after an exorcism, his body tired but sleep eluding him. Like he can’t manage to convince himself it’s over, perhaps because it isn’t and never will be.

He runs a bath because standing seems like too much trouble. He sinks into water that isn’t quite hot enough to soothe the aches in his muscles. The soap is overpoweringly floral and the shampoo smells like green apple jello, but scrubbing his fingers through his scalp after a week of nothing feels as close to heaven as he’s likely to find on earth.

Being still for this long is an indulgence to be sure, but cooling water and pruning fingers are not sensual. He tells himself that anyways, with some annoyance, when his body gets other ideas. He’s avoided lustful thoughts. These past months, Jessica has been the furthest thing from his mind. He cannot think of anything less arousing than months on end of shrieking and pain and terror. The looks on the faces of the ones they can’t save. Marcus tells him to forget; Marcus is a hypocrite.

Perhaps it is a stress reaction, his body trying to get him to produce endorphins after the abuses Tomas has put it through. It’s an improper use of his body. Masturbation as a mode of sexual exploration is a moral grey area and he’s come to understand it as a useful tool to prevent other, far greater sins. He has no greater sin to overcome, at least not at this time.

Tomas’ hand slides down his stomach and though he’s sure the room next door is empty, he keeps his lips sealed shut. The echo of his own voice makes him self conscious. His mind is a hazy, nebulous thing. The wrongness is not enough to dull the desires of his body. He thinks of rough hands on his thighs, the warm water a simulacrum of human touch. He breathes heavily through his nose, swallowing noise in his throat.

Morality is relative, but this is unbecoming. He is a man of God, letting baser instincts grab hold of his body. If a man is to live, as he has been taught, as virtuously as a human is capable, then he should avoid moral harm to himself, to his body. It seems he cannot go even a few months free of his own sins.

God but he wants to be kissed. He presses a wet hand over his mouth, the pressure on his lips nothing like what he desires. It’s not the sex he misses — the sex he regrets, for what it did to Jessica, and what it did to him — but he misses being touched, being held. He hasn’t been embraced since the last time he saw his sister, and he doesn’t want to think about his sister at a time like this.

His hand slides off his mouth and over his throat. He thinks of a hand like his cupping his jaw, pulling him closer for a kiss that would start so chaste he would barely feel the brush of lips against his until he surged forwards, pushing their bodies closer, rough stubble rasping his cheek. Marcus with one leg between his thighs, bearing down on top of Tomas, hands framing his face and holding him still.

Release is a relief for only a moment before the euphoria fades and he sits bolt upright in the tub, water sloshing over the edge. Bathwater washes away the evidence, but he can feel it on his skin all the same. He kicks the plug out of the drain and starts the shower before it even finishes emptying. The water runs cold at first and the shock is good. It clears the fog from his brain.

His eyes sting and he scrubs himself until he reeks of cheap lavender soap, until the whole bathroom reeks of it. Even after stepping out of the shower, he rubs himself down with a towel over and over until his skin is dry and sore. He doesn’t think about Marcus, he isn’t thinking about Marcus.

To err is human, but when the grace of God flows through him, when his own virtue is the means by which lives are saved or lost, how can possibly justify that? God but he feels lost, small.

There’s no evidence in the bath anymore, and everything was washed off his skin and down the drain, yet he can’t help but fear Marcus will somehow instinctively  _ know.  _ He has used his friend in an unforgivable way, he has used Marcus to satisfy his own base desires. He looks down at the cracked linoleum underfoot, running his toe along the edge of a green diamond.

It’s poor timing and worse luck that the front door screeches open when it does. Tomas yanks on his pants, buttoning his shirt before opening the bathroom door. The cool air from the motel room hits him like the winter winds in Chicago, his skin prickling with goosebumps.

“Hungry?” asks Marcus from the door, kicking his boots off and trudging over to his bed. He has a large paper bag in one hand and Tomas can smell warm spices.

“Indian?” Tomas guesses. He’s so careful, so casual, sitting on the opposite bed. He forces himself to look at Marcus, to smile and nod. He will not humiliate Marcus or shame himself.

“Indonesian.” Marcus rips open the bag and passes Tomas the box with chicken satay.

Eating is a good distraction, something to do with his hands. The strong smell of their dinner masks the smell of lavender.

“Any word?” asks Tomas, spooning rice onto a paper plate.

“Nothing yet. Bennett with call us when he can.” Marcus nods at his own words, biting into a skewered piece of chicken. The deep crease between his brows says something else and it means Tomas doesn’t press, though he is desperate to.

“Of course.” He goes back to his food, though he tries not to spend too much time staring at his lap. He needs time to think, he needs to stop avoiding Marcus’ eyes. “I’m going for a walk.”

“You haven’t eaten.” Marcus’ head tilts. He stares across at Tomas with searching eyes that bore a hole right through him.

“I’m not that hungry.” Tomas puts his plate down and stands. Marcus catches his arm before he can even start for the door.

“What’s wrong?” He can be so earnest sometimes. Marcus’ voice gets low and quiet and serious, he has this tone... Tomas rarely finds himself on the receiving end, but when he does it’s like all Marcus’ attention is focused on him and him alone. They could be in a room of thousands and he’d still feel like the only person Marcus could see. It’s dangerous. Tomas pulls his arm away, gently.

“I’m worried.” He’s not lying, not really. He’s worried about Bennett too, he is. That Marcus’ hand on his wrist makes his heart pound so hard in his throat that he is sure he won’t be able to speak is another matter entirely.

“I know, but he knows what he’s doing.” Marcus looks back down at his plate and continues eating. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll save some for when you get back.”

Marcus jerks his head towards the door. The corner of his mouth twitches up with a wry smile. Tomas can only nod as he reaches for the doorknob.

Once outside, he notices how cold it is. He’s forgotten his jacket. He feels foolish going back now. The air smells clean and cool, colder than it should be for a summer’s night. He shivers, but presses on into the dark. He needs to be alone with his thoughts.

* * *

 

The walk does nothing for his racing mind. Back in the motel room, Marcus asleep across from him, he can still make no more sense of his thoughts than he could an hour ago. 

He eats cold leftovers from a foil container, afraid to turn the light on. Marcus is so rarely still, so rarely this peaceful, though even in sleep, his face is world weary. Tomas wants to run a hand over his cheek and smooth away the creases brought on by a harder life than Tomas has known. Tomas wants a lot of things. Tomas wants his heart to stop stuttering in his chest and he wants to understand why now, and why him. Tomas wants to press his lips to the deep divot in Marcus’ brow, to the tired lines under his eyes, to the corner of his mouth. He wants God to forgive his weakness.

Marcus has a quiet fierceness, a passion that burns under his skin, and love; Marcus loves harder and deeper than any man Tomas has ever met. Tomas can not envy a single soul they have saved from the grip of a demon, yet when he sees Marcus running his hand over their brow, when he tells them they are loved by God and by Jesus and by him, Tomas wants to know, just for a moment, what that kind of love feels like.

Perhaps if he could love like that, so strong and so pure, God would forgive his lust and his greed.

He throws the empty containers away in the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face. He can’t be bothered to search for his toiletries bag in the dark and he is afraid of waking Marcus.

Tomas finds he’s taken all of Marcus’s restlessness into himself as he tosses and turns until morning, finding the sun creeping up the foot of the bed before he feels even close to sleep. Marcus wakes and when the shower turns on, Tomas pulls on yesterday’s clothes and goes out in search of coffee.

He waits outside the dining room for the continental breakfast to open and returns to their room with stale croissants, sweaty cheese, and over-salted ham. His real gifts are the two bottles of Minute Maid orange juice tucked under his arm that he bought from the vending machine, and the precariously balanced mugs of coffee.

With no hands left, he’s forced to kick the door until Marcus opens it with a bemused expression on his face and a towel around his neck.

“You look awful,” says Marcus, biting into a slice of cheddar and grimacing. He washes it down with burnt coffee and washes that taste down with orange juice.

Tomas shrugs and picks apart his croissant.

“I’m serious, Tomas, you don’t look well,” Marcus leans over, elbows on his knees. The gap between their beds is suddenly too close. The bed squeaks under Tomas as he shifts in place.

“I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well.”

“Hm,” mumbles Marcus, ham folded into a neat square he pops it in his mouth.

“I don’t like sitting on my hands.”

Tomas breaks first, looking away from Marcus and across at the television. In the curved glass, he can see their distorted reflection, in the middle it closes the gap between their knees and they meld into a single creature.

Tomas feels he’s about to leap out of his own skin every time Marcus leans over his shoulder to point out routes on a map, or rests a hand on his arm at a gas station, or grabs his wrist to jam a twenty into his palm to pay for lunch. He has no more visions and God does not answer his prayers for answers.

It’s stupid and boyish and worse than it ever was with Jessica. He’d never spent so long alone, with her right there, sleeping five feet apart with only a bedside table between them. In the middle of the night he could reach out and touch the back of Marcus’ hand as it dangled on the floor. Tomas ignores the childish urge to reach out and grasp it in his own, to bridge the gap between their beds by weaving their fingers together.  

Their latest Holiday Inn is much like the last dozen. The crowded parking lot is an ill omen, but it’s pitch black and the rain comes down in sheets, making it near impossible to see where he’s going. They pull into temporary parking outside the lobby, covering their heads with their coats as they dash inside.

Despite the short distance from the car to the front entrance, they are both dripping as they enter, warm air blasting into the frigid night as they open the door. The elderly woman at the front peers over the desk with horned rim spectacles, the rhinestones on the corners sparkle in the dim yellow light.

“Bad luck, fellas,” she says, tapping away at her keyboard, long manicured nails clicking on plastic keys. They’re a strange, fleshy shade of pink.

“What do you mean?” asks Tomas, tugging off his scarf. Her eyes widen a bit and he remembers his collar under all his layers.

“You know what? Gimmie a moment, Father. I’ll see what I can do.” She looks back down at her screen and Tomas scratches the back of his neck, shrugging at Marcus. Marcus’ lips twitch upwards with his brows, Tomas is glad his embarrassment is amusing to someone. He hates the idea of using his position to his own advantage. It would be too ironic somehow.

“Take your time,” says Marcus, leaning on the counter and smiling down at her. Her nametag reads ‘Marge’.

“If you’re alright with being out of the room before ten…”

“We’ll take it,” says Tomas, a little desperately. The rain only seems to be getting worse and he could use a hot shower and a pair of dry socks.

“It’s a double room,” she says, making it sound like an apology.

“We’re just happy being dry,” Marcus replies with a tight smile.

She hands them a set of keys and undercharges them by a significant margin. Marcus shakes his head before Tomas can object and ushers him out of the lobby with a nod to Marge and a hand on the small of his back.

They get twice as wet going back to the car to park in front of their room and by the time they find themselves inside again Tomas feels like he’s peeling off a second layer of skin taking his soaking jacket off. They hang their coats on the back of the door and survey the room.

The walls are pastel green and the white trim is cracked, revealing off-white trim underneath. There is a table and chairs next to the tube TV, and a vase with a single oversized fake daisy. The bedside table has a copy of the King James Bible with a blue vinyl cover. The bed is not really large enough for two grown men. A double.  Tomas has maybe grown a bit spoiled; his own apartment only had a single bed, but the thought of sharing a bed with Marcus is doing something awful to his insides.  

“I’m knackered,” says Marcus, shrugging off his button-up and peeling off the soaked undershirt underneath.

Tomas grabs his bag and marches straight for the bathroom. “I’m getting ready for bed.”

He shuts the door and the click of the latch makes his shoulders sag in relief. He pulls dry clothes, his toothbrush and his razor out of the bag, laying them on the counter while he undresses.

With shaking hands, he unbuttons his shirt. The wet fabric clings and his numb fingers are completely useless. He only gets half of them before tugging it and his undershirt over his head. He finds a t-shirt and relatively clean sweatpants, and he takes his time brushing his teeth and washing his face until he has no reason left to be in the bathroom anymore.

Marcus is on the far side of the bed, back turned so Tomas can’t tell if he’s asleep yet. Tomas runs a hand through his hair before dropping his bag at the foot of the bed and peeling back the sheets.

Marcus rolls onto his back. “If you drool on me, I’ll take all the sheets.” 

Tomas freezes and then forces a laugh. “Well, you snore.”

“Get in, it’s freezing.”

Tomas swallows and nods, climbing onto a surprisingly comfortable mattress. The springs aren’t rusted or squeaky from years of abuse, the mattress still feels padded and soft, and the sheets don’t even scratch. He’d ask what the catch is, but he already knows. Marcus has rolled back onto his side only this time he’s facing Tomas, hand tucked under his pillow.

“I-I’ll get the light,” says Tomas, reaching for the lamp. Marcus grunts in return, his eyes already closed. Tomas nearly knocks it over.

In the dark, he can feel how close their skin is. The heat from their bodies warms the space between them and makes it a tangible thing. Tomas is scared he’ll reach out for him without thinking. He can always pretend to be asleep if he does, though Marcus always seems to be able to tell when he’s awake. Marcus always seems to know everything. It is a comfort to know that Marcus can’t possibly know  _ this _ , if he did, he never would have agreed to share a bed.

Tomas’ heart races in his chest and in the dark it’s so loud he’s sure he’ll wake Marcus with its thundering. He keeps his breaths shallow and even. He’ll fall asleep, he has to. He has to drive first tomorrow, after all. He thinks about that, thinks about their route, their map. He thinks about the songs on the only tape they have in the car.

 

_ I am just a poor boy _

_ though my story’s seldom told,  _

_ I have squandered my resistance _

_ On a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises…  _

Marcus has grown sick of it, but on long stretches outside of any sort of civilization the radio is nothing but static or talk shows and they’re left with little choice. Marcus always makes him skip ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ though Tomas has always secretly liked that one. At least they can agree on 'The Boxer'. 

That song always reminds him of Marcus, a man who  spends his whole life fighting, only to have everything ripped from his hands, a man weary to his core. Marcus never talks about himself but Tomas can read his exhaustion in every sharp line on his face.

 

_ He carries the reminder  _

_ Of every glove that laid him down or cut him _

_ ‘Til he cried out in his anger and his shame _

_ “I am leaving, I am leaving.”  _

_ But the fighter still remains _

The air between them settles. It no longer makes Tomas’ skin itch and tingle with its nearness. It morphs into something warm and comfortable. Somehow his prayers come easier tonight. Tomas falls asleep with his hand between them, Marcus inches away.

* * *

 

Tomas wakes alone from a sudden chill. A quiet screech and a click take a moment to place until Tomas remembers the squeaky door hinges from the night before. 

“Marcus?” he mumbles into his pillow. Silence. He must have just left. Reaching a hand across Tomas feels the other side of the bed. It’s cooling quickly but Marcus seems to have left in a hurry, the parts still covered by the sheet are warm.

The cool air let in by Marcus’ abrupt departure makes him shiver. Tomas stretches, soaking in the last of the warmth left by his partner. The red numbers on the ancient alarm clock read quarter to seven. Marcus’ pillow is crooked and still holds the indent from his head, Tomas traces fingers along the rumpled edge.

It’s a heady scent, the smell of someone else in his sheets. He’s grown used to Marcus these past months, but it’s another thing altogether to be surrounded by him. Warmth pools in his groin. There is no way for him to deny the cause of his arousal this time— it’s tangled in his legs and wrapped around his shoulders.

He’d thought perhaps with time, his lust would abate. He wants to love without sin. There is no shame in love. Simply loving does not break any vows or violate any trusts. He loves his sister, he loves his nephew, he loves his parish. He loves Marcus.

There is no excuse for him to reach between his legs and press a palm to his growing erection. He is touching himself for the pure pleasure of it, rolling his head onto Marcus’s pillow and breathing in. The guilt tying knots in his stomach isn’t enough to stop his hand. He presses his face into the pillow to stifle a moan. If God forgave him before, he will be to ashamed to ask forgiveness now.

In his mind, Marcus is still in bed with him, arms wrapped around his shoulders as Tomas continues to pleasure himself. Lips press chaste kisses to his forehead and much less chaste ones to the corner of his mouth.

Tomas wants to bury his head in the crook of Marcus’ neck and feel the sandpaper scrape of day old stubble on the nape of his neck. He wants to come with legs tangled in his and hands in his hair, Marcus’ mouth on his, swallowing his moans.

Instead Tomas bites the palm of his hand to stay quiet. He comes with nothing wrapped around him but motel sheets, his hand shoved down the front of his pyjamas like he’s thirteen again and he’s heard his  _ abuela  _ shut the TV off and go to bed. He was always so scared she somehow knew, like her watchful eyes could see through him and into his darkest thoughts just like the eyes of God are no doubt doing now. Shame is tight and hot and it spills out of the corners of his eyes. He wipes his tears away with his sleeve. His hands are filthy.

By the time Marcus returns, Tomas has washed away the evidence of his sins. Afraid the room smells of his infractions, he’s propped the front door open while he gathers their things.

“It’s colder in here than it is out there,” Marcus complains, jacket slick with rainwater. “Is something the matter?”

He must have noticed Tomas’ face, grey and drawn.  

“I think we should move on, don’t you?”

It’s not an answer, but Marcus shrugs and grabs their bags. “Bennett called. We should start heading north.”

Relief floods Tomas from his chest to the tips of his fingers. He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Marcus starts towards the car. Tomas goes to follow him, but from where he’s standing, he’s just able to reach out guilty fingers to brush Marcus’ pillow one last time. If God does not forgive him, if he fails because of his own weakness, he will never forgive himself.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas and Marcus investigate reports of a teenage boy possessed by a demon. Tomas wrestles with his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So big apologies, this fic sort of got away with me and instead of the exorcism case serving the angst and jerking off, I fear it's become quite the other way around. This means this fic is going to be a fair bit longer than I anticipated and with a lot more actual plot. Probably still the same amount of pining though, so there is that. I hope no one feels mislead by the first chapter.  
> P.S. your kind comments and kudos on chapter one made me cry.

_ A hand grabs him from behind, covering his face, shoving dirty fingers in his mouth. He can’t breathe. He’s choking and he can’t bite down. The fingers shove deeper down his throat and he gags around them. He can taste bile and dirt; they fill his mouth so he can’t scream. His fists are bloody as they bang on the trapdoor overhead. Hands drag him back down into the darkness as his fingernails break on the splintering planks barring his escape. _

Tomas wakes with a start. There are hands on his arms and his seatbelt is caught around his neck. His chest hurts, he’s breathing hard and fast, his ribs feel like they will break.

“Tomas!” Marcus is untangling him from his seatbelt and Tomas tries to stay still and let him. The sky is too bright. Marcus holds Tomas’ face in his hands, his thumbs stroking slow circles on his cheeks. “You’re alright. Stay with me.” Tomas nods and draws in shaky breaths. It hurts to hold them in too long; his lungs are going to burst.

“That’s it... slowly,” Marcus murmurs. He’s drawn close, hands moving back to run through Tomas’ hair like he’s a child. Tomas doesn’t fight the temptation to collapse into him; Marcus does not let him fall, wrapping strong arms around his shoulders. Marcus’ sweater is warm; it smells like stale car and cheap deodorant. His cheek indulgently pressed to Marcus’ breast, he holds his breaths and slowly he can breathe again.

When his heart no longer feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest, when his stomach stops churning, Tomas sits up and takes stock of his surroundings. Marcus must have pulled over in a hurry; the engine is off but the hazard light indicator is flashing. Cars flash by without slowing down. On either side of them, fields stretch on forever. Marcus still hasn’t moved back to his side of the cab, or let go of Tomas. Hands grip his shoulders, holding him upright.

“Are you alright?” asks Marcus, solid and firm at his side. Marcus is a fortress, and though the fear has subsided, Tomas wants nothing more than to crawl inside him.

“I… where are we?” he replies, unsure how to actually answer the question.

“Idaho,” says Marcus, his nose wrinkling. “I hate this country. You drive for twelve hours and it all looks the bloody same. At least we’re out of the mountains now.”

“We’re close, then?” Their latest case was a little over an hour’s drive away from the border and they’d been driving through Utah all this morning.

“Probably another half hour if I don’t get lost finding the place.” Marcus squeezes his shoulder. “I’m serious, though. Are you alright? You gave me a real scare.”

“I’m sorry.” Tomas shakes his head. “It was just a nightmare.”

“Right,” says Marcus in a way that implies he doesn’t believe him at all. “We’ll drive through town on our way in. You need to eat before we start anything.” 

With some reluctance, Tomas puts his seatbelt back on. “What about you?” he asks. 

“Me?” Marcus replies with mock surprise. “Well, I’m capable of looking after myself.”

Marcus grins when Tomas scoffs with indignation.

Tomas fiddles with the radio, but neither of them are in the mood for twanging guitar and lyrics bemoaning the loss of a beloved tractor, so Tomas pops in their trusty cassette. He can’t seem to shake the last of the dread from his nightmare, but Marcus tapping his hands on the wheel and mumbling along to the lyrics certainly helps. Marcus smirks when he catches Tomas watching and sings louder,

_ “I’ve got no deeds to do, no promises to keep, _

_ I’m dappled and drowsy and ready for sleep, _

_ Let the morningtime drop all it’s petals on me,  _

_ Life I love you, all is groovy…”  _

Tomas chuckles and leans back in his seat. Marcus is not a talented singer, but his voice is low and familiar and he can carry a tune. They both know every word to every song off this damn tape. Tomas knows exactly when he needs to fast forward through Marcus’ least favourite,  _ “Bridge Over Troubled Water”,  _ and can release the button the moment it fades into  _ “America”.  _

They pull into a greasy spoon diner at the end of  _ “Cecilia”.  _ Marcus is still humming the chorus as they seat themselves in a sticky vinyl booth. Despite the chill outside, the diner is warm, almost sweltering, both men shrug off extra layers, piling them on the seats beside them. The menus have the diner’s name written across the front in neon pink. Their waitress, a dark haired teenager, wears a polo with the same neon font. Her nametag says ‘Sandra’. She nervously glances at Tomas’ collar and doesn’t look either of them in the eye as she flips open her notepad.

“What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have a bacon and egg sandwich and a coffee, if you don’t mind?” says Marcus. He smiles at her and, to Tomas’ surprise, she smiles back, shoulders relaxing just a little.

“I’ll have the same,” he says when her gaze turns to him. She nods and takes their menus, scurrying off to the kitchen.

“Did you see her neck?” asks Marcus as soon as she’s out of earshot.

“What about it?” Tomas cranes his neck to find her.

“No, don’t look,” Marcus snaps, reaching across the table to yank him back down by his shirt. Marcus shakes his head. “She had all the buttons done up.”

“And?” 

“And I’d pass off the bruise she was trying to cover up as lovebite if she wasn’t also wearing long sleeves under her polo.”

Tomas frowns and resists the urge to look for their waitress again. “It’s almost winter,” he argues.

“It’s boiling in here, Tomas.”

Marcus is right. When she comes back with their coffees, Tomas can see the green and brown bruise peeking out over the edge of her collar. She still won’t look at Tomas, though she smiles and nods at Marcus.

“Someone’s hurting her,” says Tomas. Marcus’ smile is bitter and so is the coffee, even with three sugars and creamer.

Marcus pays while Tomas climbs back into the truck and goes over the map again. It’s only another fifteen minutes to the farmhouse. He needs all his focus for their new case, but Tomas can't stop his mind from drifting back to Sandra. She wouldn't even look at him.

“Don't take it too personally. I'm the handsome one, after all,” says Marcus, but Tomas knows him well enough now to know when he's hiding something.

“What?”

“Let's focus on our boy,” says Marcus. Tomas frowns, frustrated at his quick dismissal.

“We’re not going to forget about her, Tomas, but we have a job to do right now.” Tomas resists arguing, watching Marcus out of the corner of his eye. He hides it well, but Tomas can tell Marcus is angry, not at him, but maybe at God. He’s often told his parishioners that the Lord never gives us more than He knows we can take; when he sees Marcus, torn and frustrated at his own impotence, the words only feel like empty platitudes.

They pull onto the long, rocky driveway that leads to the Bell family farmhouse. On either side, rows and rows of green are interspersed with swatches of tilled dirt where this year’s harvest has already been collected. On the far side of one of the fields, Tomas can see a tractor sitting empty next to a massive pile of produce, some kind of root vegetable. Despite it only being a little after midday, he does not see anyone working the fields or tending to the harvest. 

“Stop the car.”

“Hm?” Marcus looks over at him, frowning, his foot easing off the gas.

“Marcus, stop the car.”

Something in his voice must have startled his partner because the truck comes to an abrupt halt, his seatbelt nearly knocking the wind out of him. Tomas leaps from the cab, starting across the field towards the abandoned tractor -- behind him, he can hear the car door slam and Marcus’ rapid footsteps as he hastens to catch up with him.

The dirt is cold and hard, and the uneven ground makes for treacherous footing so it takes longer than he expects to reach the towering pile beside the tractor. It stands taller than the machine itself and Tomas’ stomach sinks as his suspicions are confirmed.

“These are sugar beets,” he says to Marcus.

“Yeah?” Marcus places a hand on his shoulder. “Are they supposed to look like that?”

Tomas kneels down at the pile and picks one up. Its bruised leaves are still green at the top, but closer to the root, the stem has turned an awful, sick brown.

“No, no, they are not.” The typically white root is mottled with black rot, and every beet in the pile is lousy with it. Tomas runs a finger along a blackened patch and is disgusted to find it slick.

“It would explain why no one is working the fields. It looks like harvest season’s passed early.” He stomps the frozen ground underfoot.

Tomas nods. “Is it a sign?”

“Could be demonic, could just be bad luck,” Marcus shrugs, but his tight mouth betrays his casual tone.

“I think we should hurry.”

Walking back to the truck takes longer than the final stretch of driveway to the house. When they pull up, a woman in a white blouse and a long floral skirt steps out to greet them, her hair tied back in a plain blue bandana. She comes down the front stairs so quickly Tomas fears she’ll trip. They barely have time to get out of the truck before she reaches them.

She is very attractive, in her mid-thirties at the latest, but her face is pale and drawn, and her lips are dry. She holds her hands clasped in front of her, fingers worrying the skin like an ill-fitting glove.

Tomas unravels his scarf so she can see his collar and she looks as if she’s ready to collapse with relief. She takes him by the hands.

“The Church sent you?” she asks, pleads, her voice as dry and cracked as her lips.

“Yes,” says Marcus before Tomas can open his mouth.

Her eyes narrow just a little when she sees Marcus only wears a leather jacket and a sweater, his neck long and bare.

“Are… are you a priest, too?” Tomas takes her hands in his own and makes sure to meet her eye.

“Father Gregory is a very experienced exorcist.” False names are necessary in a town like this, it’s impossible for them to go unnoticed and there is a small but devout Catholic community.  

She hesitates a moment, glancing back at Marcus before meeting Tomas’ gaze again. She relaxes just a little, her shoulders sagging. Tomas can almost feel her exhaustion.

She nods. “Please, ah--” She looks at Tomas, who extends his hand to her.

“Father Alexis.”

She takes it. “Father Alexis, Father Gregory, come inside. I’ll make coffee.”  

Inside is warm, but it smells stale, like no one has bothered to open a window in months. Maybe they haven't. Harriet Bell, as she introduces herself, grinds coffee by hand and puts it on the stove. Tomas can feel his mouth watering at the promise of a decent cup. Marcus, it seems, can only be tactful for so long. Before she’s even sat down with her own cup, he’s begun his interrogation.

“So was it you who contacted the Church?” Marcus asks, not yet touching his coffee.

She shakes her head. “No, it was my husband. I thought he was just sick, I never… you have to understand I wasn’t raised that way, I wouldn’t even have thought…”

“Your family Christmas and Easter types, then?” Marcus finally takes a sip of his coffee and makes his pleasure known in a moan that’s just a hair away from obscene.

“Latter Day types,” she sighs. “Can’t say they were pleased when I married David.”

“So what do you believe, then?” Marcus presses, leaning his elbows on the table.

“When I got married, I lost my family, I lost my faith, but I found new family and new meaning with my husband.”

“We all seek the Lord in our own way,” Tomas interjects, giving Marcus a sharp look before laying a hand over Mrs. Bell’s. She smiles at him and looks a little relieved, though her eyes dart nervously back at Marcus.

“Your son, how old is he?” Tomas asks, keeping his voice gentle.

“He’s sixteen.” She shrinks in her seat, embarrassed. “Elijah is technically my step-son, the child of my husband's first marriage.”

“That must have been hard for you, raising another woman’s child,” Marcus comments, taking another sip of his coffee.

Mrs. Bell turns to look at Marcus so fiercely, Tomas worries she might strike him. “I love Elijah like he was my own. He’s a good boy, he gets good grades, he loves his sisters, he never needs to be asked to help around the house. Always been like that, even as a little boy… at least he  _ was _ always like that…”

“And your husband believes this is more than simple teenage rebellion?”

“Why don’t you tell us what happened, in your own words,” Tomas interrupts before Marcus completely overstays their welcome. Marcus shoots him a look he ignores.

Mrs. Bell hangs her head, her lip caught between her teeth. “ _ I  _ thought it was just teenage rebellion—that’s what I kept telling David—even when it was staring me plain in the face.”

“What was he doing?” asks Tomas, reaching for her hand; she takes it in a white knuckled grip.

“He started asking if he could stay home from church,” Mrs. Bell begins, her voice unsteady. “The first couple weeks, he said he was tired, or feeling sick, but after a couple weeks, we caught on. Him and his father had a nasty fight over that, but what can you do? It’s not like we could physically drag him, and threats didn’t do anything. Father Amos came by to talk to him. Elijah yelled and screamed and carried on until Father Amos had no choice but to leave. He hasn’t been back since and I don’t blame him.”

“This Father Amos, where can we find him?” Marcus interjects, his coffee cup empty and cold on the table in front of him.

“He lives in the carriage house out back of St. Jerome’s. If you take the highway north out of town, you can’t miss it.” Mrs. Bell squeezes Tomas’ hand so hard he thinks she might break it.

“Lots of youth nowadays are moving away from the Church. Is it so unusual for Elijah to feel the same way?” Marcus is a little more gentle in his tone with Tomas’ warning glances tempering him.

“I wish that were all, Father,” says Mrs. Bell, shaking her head. “He started sleepwalking, leaving the house in the dead of night. We had to put an alarm on the door because we kept finding him when we woke up at dawn, frozen stiff in his pjs in the middle of the fields.”

“Did he say anything about this? Does he remember anything before waking up, like a dream?” asks Tomas.

Mrs. Bell shakes her head. “No. And it was around this time he started saying things, terrible things to his sisters. He told Teresa, our second eldest, that she was cursed, that she was dying. She’s only nine years old. We didn’t realize what he meant until she came to us in tears, afraid she really was dying. She’s so young, it’s so early for her to… well…” Mrs. Bell looks down at her lap, shifting in her seat.

Marcus catches on faster than Tomas. “Was she menstruating?”

Mrs. Bell nods. “I don’t know how he knew. He barely comes out of his room anymore, and she hid it so well.”

“I don’t want to consider, but did you think maybe—”

“No,” Mrs. Bell stops Marcus before he can go any further. “Elijah may not be himself, he may be possessed by the devil for all I know, but he would never do a thing like that, he’d never touch either of them.”

Tomas shakes his head. It’s too horrific to contemplate, but Marcus has a point. It’s no use pressing the issue though. He can feel Mrs. Bell pulling away and they need her on their side.

“Where is your husband right now?” he asks, turning the subject away from Elijah.

“He’s picking the girls up from school. He should be home soon,” she replies, glancing at the clock on the stove.

“Do you want him to be here before—”  _ Before we see your son _ , Tomas almost says. but he stops when Mrs. Bell shakes her head.

“No, I think… I think I’d better take you to him.” She stands, and Marcus and Tomas follow. He expects her to take them upstairs, to one of the bedrooms, but instead she leads them back outside and around back of the house to a heavy set of wooden doors set into the ground. Tomas’ heart begins to race and the back of his mind itches, like a memory scratching at the door.

Mrs. Bell lifts the heavy plank blocking the entrance and Marcus helps her set it on the grass. Tomas feels sick. The wood is pale and grey from the rain and sun, years of abuse present on the splintered wood. When Marcus helps Mrs. Bell open the doors, when he sees the underside and its bloody scratches, his fingers sting with phantom pain, the memory of his nails breaking, wood splintering under them. His breath catches in his throat, and the world narrows to a pinprick of light. The cellar door seems so far away, like he’s looking at it through a long, dark tunnel. Marcus is calling for him, he should answer. He should— 

* * *

 

Tomas wakes. The light is hazy and gray but too bright. The air is stale, he is back in the farmhouse. Mrs. Bell leans over him, eyes tight with worry.

“Father Alexis?” Tentative. What is she afraid of? Tomas remembers she has her son locked in the cellar. She’s always afraid now, he would think.

“Mrs. Bell, how long was I…?”

“Only a few minutes. We only just put you down.”

Tomas props himself up on his elbows. He’s in a small room with pale blue paint on the walls. A sheer curtain covers the window, but does little to block the light. He blinks, trying to force his eyes to adjust. The bed under him is small and narrow, and the mattress feels old. The metal frame is painted white and creaks as he sits up. Mrs. Bell fusses behind him, propping up a pillow so he can lean back.

“I’m alright,” he says, but he lets her worry over him. It feels rude to try and brush her off. “Where is Father Gregory?”

“After he carried you here, he went down to see Elijah. He promised he wouldn’t be long.”

Tomas nods. His head aches, but the room doesn’t spin, so he’ll take that as a win. Mrs. Bell shifts in the chair beside him. He reaches out and takes her hand.

“Your son is in good hands,” he assures her. Her smile is wan and her lips are almost white. Her chin trembles. Slowly, to avoid jostling his aching head, Tomas moves his legs over the edge of the bed. He puts his hands on her shoulders, feeling them shake. He ducks his head down so he can meet her downcast eyes.

“It’s going to be alright.”

It seems Mrs. Bell has spent too long holding back her tears as they burst out of her without so much as a sob. They run down her cheeks and over her tight jaw as her teeth clench. Tomas pulls her into his arms and lets her shake, her face pressed to his breast. He runs hands through her hair, like Marcus had done for him only a few hours ago. After minutes of tense shaking, she finally lets herself sob. Her entire body deflates in his arms and it takes effort to keep her from falling to the floor.

He doesn’t hear Marcus approach, but when he looks up, he finds him there, standing in the door, his expression tense and unreadable. He nods at Tomas and leaves, letting him comfort Mrs. Bell on his own. Tomas has always been better with the families.

Eventually the shaking subsides and she slips out of Tomas’ arms. He worries when she stands, but she is steady on her feet, her eyes red-rimmed but determined.

“I’m sorry about that, Father,” she says, smoothing out her skirt.

“Don’t apologize. I can’t begin to imagine how you must be feeling right now.” Tomas stands and gestures to the bed. “Please, I need to speak with my partner, but rest a bit.” 

Mrs. Bell shakes her head. “David should be home with the girls soon. I should get dinner started.” 

Tomas doesn’t argue -- he knows too well the necessity of busy hands to keep wandering minds at bay.

Tomas expected them to be on the second floor, so it comes as a surprise to him when the hallway actually leads them back into the kitchen. They find Marcus sitting at the table, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks up at them when they enter.

“Feeling better?” Marcus’ tone is joking but Tomas can hear the concern underneath it.

“I’m alright,” he replies, his eyes flicking to Mrs. Bell. Marcus gets the hint and drops the subject.

“My partner and I will need to talk to your Father Amos, but we can come back tonight after dinner to talk to your husband.” 

“Of course,” says Mrs. Bell. She sees them to the door, but catches Tomas’ shoulder before he can cross the threshold. “You’ll help him? Elijah?”

“We’re very good at what we do,” he replies. It’s not an answer, but it seems to reassure her. She watches them leave through the screen door.

Marcus pulls away and they start back down the bumpy driveway. Every rock jostles Tomas’ head and he holds it in his hands, willing the blinding ache to stop. It isn’t until they are well clear of the farmhouse and on their way down the highway that Marcus pulls over and undoes his seatbelt. He slides over to the middle seat to put a hand on the back of Tomas’ neck and Tomas isn’t too proud to relish the comfort. The calluses are rough on his overheated skin, but the sensation brings him back to the truck and away from the pounding behind his eyes.

“Tomas,” says Marcus, and his voice makes Tomas never want to be well again if only so he can hear his name said like that over and over. It’s a foolish thought, but the longer he sits, the hotter his body grows. Some of it is certainly the headache, the remnants of his dream still clinging to the back of his mind, but Marcus is sitting so close, their thighs are touching, and his hand is pulling him closer ever so slightly. It’s the wrong time, the wrong place, but since when has his heart cared about timing?

“I—I’m sorry,” mumbles Tomas. He wants to turn his face so Marcus’ palm is on his cheek. In his mind, he sees the doors to the cellar thrown wide open. He can see the dark and the dark is looking back.

“What happened?” It’s like Marcus can see his mind, can read every inner thought. He cups Tomas’ face in his hands and draws closer, hands smoothing over his hot cheeks. His stomach is tight and hot with desire and shame. Elijah, he can’t forget about the boy, why they’re here. He can’t let himself be pulled into selfish thoughts. Tomas has to turn away; Marcus’ gaze is intense and leaves no room for anything else but him.

“My nightmare, the cellar was in my nightmare,” he says, and feels the pressure of calloused palms on his cheek when he speaks. “I saw it, and I—I don’t know, everything started to feel so far away. Next thing I know, I’m waking up with Mrs. Bell fussing over me.”

Marcus lets go of Tomas and he tries not to pine for the lost touch, however it’s only for a moment. Marcus smooths hair from Tomas’ damp forehead, his brow creased with concern. “You don’t look well.”

“I just need some water, maybe to lay down a bit. I’ll be fine.” It would be wrong to imply otherwise simply for the pleasure of having Marcus’ hands on him. His friend is concerned; he shouldn’t turn that into something it’s not.

Marcus doesn’t seem convinced by his platitudes, but he lets go of him for real this time. He reaches over Tomas to fumble in the glovebox for a half empty bottle of water. He presses it into Tomas’ hands and doesn’t stop staring until Tomas takes a sip of stale, lukewarm water. It tastes like plastic and dust, but his head isn’t quite so loud anymore, so he doesn’t complain.

“Elijah,” says Tomas, remembering the purpose of their visit to the Bell’s farmhouse. “Is he…”

“Yes.” He sounds so sure that Tomas’ stomach drops like a stone. “I don’t need to talk to Father Amos to determine that.”

“It’s bad, then?” Despite the water, Tomas’ mouth feels dry and sticky.

“Either he’s been possessed for a very long time, or we are dealing with something very powerful.” Marcus lets out a long sigh. “Either way, it’s not looking good.”

“Do you think we can save him?” Tomas puts the cap back on the water bottle, the thin plastic crinkling far too loud in his hand.

“We’re going to damn well try.”   

* * *

Father Amos is younger than Tomas expects, perhaps even a little younger than Marcus. He is thick waisted and round faced, and his beard covers a weak chin. They find him in the garden behind the church, weeding. His hand-painted garden boxes are covered in rainbows and stick figure children. He smiles and takes his gloves off to shake both their hands, tucking the gloves into the back pocket of his jeans. 

“What can I say? Once a farm boy, always a farm boy,” he laughs, clapping Marcus on the shoulder.

“Did you grow up in this area then?” asks Marcus. The accent is all wrong for it and Tomas is sure Marcus knows it. He frowns, but holds his tongue.

Father Amos leads them inside his home, a single room carriage house with blue gingham curtains.

“No, Carolina,” Father Amos replies. “Youngest of four brothers. No way I was inheriting the farm, so I decided to see what other use I could put myself to.”

“I see,” says Marcus. His eyes dart around the room, missing nothing, Tomas is sure if Marcus had ever been a teacher, his students would have been terrified to misbehave, if only because they knew they’d never get away with it. Marcus introduces them with their false names, after all they are fugitives from the Church.

Father Amos sits them at his kitchen table, round with a white table cloth. In the centre, there are brightly coloured carnations in a mason jar. It seems they cannot escape his rustic hospitality; Father Amos insists on at least making them a cup of coffee, and though he would much rather water or tea, Tomas feels it would be rude to decline.

They make small talk about fundraisers and restoration costs while the coffee brews. It isn’t until they are all seated that Marcus begins his interrogation.

“So you’ve been to see Elijah Bell?” Marcus’ tone is too sharp to be construed as casual. He takes a slow sip of his coffee and watches Amos over the rim. Amos stares back, his face morphing into pity.

“I have. About two weeks ago.”  He steeples his fingers, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“And you didn’t think to contact the Church?” Marcus demands. Tomas puts a hand on his knee under the table. Marcus seems to take the hint and leans back in his chair. “Elijah is in bad shape, Father Amos. If we had known sooner…”

“I did contact the church. They told me there wasn’t enough proof,” Father Amos insists, setting his coffee cup down with a clatter, milky brown droplets staining the white tablecloth.

“Well, there is now.” Marcus pulls out his cellphone, opening a video and sliding it across the table to Father Amos. Amos picks it up with shaking hands, and it takes him three tries to tap the play button. Tomas has not seen this video yet—he didn’t even know Marcus had taken one— but the sounds are horrific. It’s mostly shrieking and some Aramaic and Latin mixed together, but he does catch a few words in English. _“Whores!”_ the demon screams. _“I’ll kill him!”_. It’s typical demon nonsense and obscenity. Father Amos is sheet white. He drops the phone before the video even ends and Marcus takes it back. The shot it is paused on is too dark to make out details and Tomas is glad.

“God have mercy,” Amos whispers.

“Please, we are here to help,” Tomas pleads, hands resting on the table with his palms up. “Anything you can tell us about Elijah, anything about the last few months. Is he having difficulties at home or at school?”

Father Amos shakes his head. “Elijah comes from a good home, good family. He’s pretty quiet, but he has some friends. Then he stopped participating during youth group. He’d show up, but his heart just wasn’t there, and before he’d been one of the most enthusiastic. He never drank, never smoked, never even cussed as far as I heard, and even I drop a choice word now and then when I stub my toe.”

“So he became withdrawn?” asks Tomas. Marcus’ knee bumps his and he looks over at his partner, but Marcus stares right at Father Amos.

“You could say that,” Father Amos replies. “But he also became aggressive towards any attempt to draw him out of his shell. The last time he came to church, he stormed out of the rec room. He didn’t say anything. He just stood up all of a sudden and marched right out.”

“I see,” says Tomas. “And the last time you saw him? Mrs. Bell says he yelled at you?”

“Yes, he wanted me gone, that was for sure.” Father Amos hangs his head. “I failed my duty to him and to this parish. I should have pressed harder for the Church to send someone.”

“They have now, and that’s what matters.” Tomas stretches his arm across the table and puts a hand over Father Amos’.

“I’m no exorcist,” says Father Amos, “but if there’s anything I can do…”

“We’ll let you know,” Marcus interrupts, standing abruptly. “It’s getting late. We should meet with the Bells again.”  

Tomas wants to press further, but Marcus is tugging on his arm in a not-so-subtle fashion, so he follows his partner’s lead.

“Thank you for your time, Father Amos,” says Tomas, nodding respectfully.

Father Amos grabs a sticky note from the windowsill and scrawls a hasty note. “Here,” he says, passing it to Tomas. “This is my cell phone. Call if you need anything else.”

“Of course,” says Tomas at the same time Marcus interrupts with: “Thank you, Father.”

Father Amos sees them to the door and waves them off. He smiles, but there is no serenity to it. He is as pale as he was when Marcus first showed him the video of Elijah.

They pull away from the little church. Tomas rests his head on the window, though the rough road rattles his skull against the glass. St. Jerome’s grows smaller in the distance.

“Was that really worth the risk?” asks Tomas. “What did we learn that we didn’t from his family?”

“Father Amos never contacted the Church.” Marcus stares straight ahead, his eyes narrow and focused on the road.

“But—”

Marcus shakes his head. “Even though they haven't been dispatching exorcists, the Church still keep records of reports, founded or not. Bennett only had the reports from the family.”

“Things can slip through the cracks?” Tomas presses, sitting upright to look at Marcus. He sees the grim hunch of his shoulders and the tell-tale twitch of his jaw—Marcus is grinding his teeth again.

“He didn’t know who we were. If he’d contacted the church he would have known to look for us.”

“Then why did we bother risking being found?” demands Tomas. Marcus looks back at him, frowning.

“Something’s not right here, Tomas. Don’t you feel it?”

“There is a teenaged boy locked in a cellar while a demon uses his body. Of course something’s not right!” Whether Marcus is being purposefully obtuse or not, Tomas feels his hackles rise.

“I want to see if we can speak to some members of Elijah’s youth group. We’ll have to get the names from Mrs. Bell.”

Instead of pulling back onto the highway, Marcus takes a side road through the rows of fields back into town.

“We couldn’t just ask Father Amos?”

“I don’t trust him. I don’t want him knowing more about what we’re doing than he already does.”

Tomas shrugs, but he’s learned to trust Marcus’ instincts when it comes to people. He doesn’t press the issue.

Marcus pulls into a McDonald’s drive-through. It’s not exactly the dinner of champions —they eat it in the parking lot and it makes the cab smell horrific, but it’s fast and cheap and right next to a motel that boasts free wifi. Tomas waits in the car while Marcus books a single room. They won’t be sleeping at the same time until this is over, but this isn’t the kind of town two men want to be booking one bed together, especially if they want to avoid scrutiny.

“Are we ready to get back?” asks Tomas as Marcus hops back in the truck.

Marcus nods and starts the engine. “We’re flying blind, but that’s not new. Elijah can’t afford to wait any longer.”

“The video…”

“Right,” says Marcus, reaching into his jacket to pass Tomas his phone. “Here. It’s not pretty.”

Tomas watches while Marcus drives. His stomach sinks low and heavy. Elijah’s skin is blistered and cracking, his mouth scabbed, his eyes yellowed and bloodshot. It’s hard to see much in the dark, but his skin looks like it’s burning from the inside out with raw red patches showing through the rips in his tee-shirt. He’s chained to a post on the floor by his ankle; he runs at Marcus and falls on his face when he reaches the end of his tether, screaming all the while. No matter how many times Tomas sees this, it will never fail to make him ill. No one should have to suffer that.

He holds the phone in his hand long after the video stops playing. “Are we sure Father Amos is so untrustworthy? He seemed pretty upset after you showed him this?”

“Fear of the demonic doesn’t automatically imply trustworthiness,” Marcus replies. “He lied to us about calling the Church.”

“He could have been trying to save face? One of his flock is suffering greatly due to his oversight.”

“I know,” says Marcus, his hands grip the wheel with white knuckles. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Tomas replies without thinking--he doesn't need to think.

“I don’t have the whole picture yet, but I can feel it. There’s something very wrong here,” Marcus insists, slapping his hand on the wheel. “We’re missing something, something important.”

“Hopefully Mr. Bell will be able to fill in some blanks,” says Tomas with more hope than he feels. If Marcus is right, it may be that only Elijah himself will be able to provide them the missing pieces of the puzzle. Drawing truth out of a demon is a tricky business: demons are all half-truths mixed with lies to hurt and demean.

They arrive back at the Bell family’s farmhouse a little after seven. The sky is black, but stepping out of the truck, Tomas is struck by the beauty of the sky this far away from the city. Living in bustling urban centres his entire life, the cosmos overhead seems to him the most beautiful thing in the universe.

The back of his neck heats as Marcus presses a hand to the small of his back to guide him up the stairs to the door. He ignores it.

Mrs. Bell is already waiting at the door by the time they get to the front step, the screen door creaking open to let them inside.

“The girls are upstairs playing and David is in the living room,” she says, taking their coats.

“Do you mind if I speak to your daughters?” asks Marcus, glancing up the stairs to where they can hear the telltale sound of little voices.

“Of course,” Mrs. Bell replies. “They can be a bit shy, though.”

Marcus nods. “That’s alright, anything helps.”

“Living room is this way, right?” asks Tomas, pointing down the hall past the kitchen. This part of the routine he is used to.

Mrs. Bell glances between the two of them, frowning, but she nods. “My girls are frightened, Father,” she says to Marcus. “Just don’t…”

“Of course,” says Marcus, bowing his head. Tomas watches him ascend the staircase and puts a hand on Mrs. Bell’s shoulder.

“I’d like to talk to you and your husband together,” he prods. She tears her eyes away from Marcus as if only now noticing Tomas is still there.

“Oh,” she says, startled. “Of course.”

David Bell is slightly shorter than Tomas with a neatly-trimmed salt and pepper beard. His eyes are sunken and the bags look like someone pressed their thumbs to his undereye until his blood vessels popped. He smiles at Tomas and it seems sincere despite his exhaustion.

“Father Alexis,” he says, standing to take Tomas’ hand in a firm grip. His hands are frigid and stiff. “My wife seems confident in your abilities.”   

Tomas is not sure if that is a question or an accusation. Tomas sits in the armchair across from Mr. and Mrs. Bell, who sit hand in hand with their shoulders touching on the overstuffed pale blue couch. Tomas rubs damp hands on his knees. He feels the nausea from earlier rise in his throat and swallows it back down.

“Thank you,” says Mr. Bell, “you and your partner, for coming. We were starting to wonder if the Church was going to listen.”

“Of course,” Tomas replies. He won’t tell either of them the Church didn’t send them. He hopes they won’t find out until Elijah is safe and he and Marcus are long gone. “I have some questions about Elijah…”

Mrs. Bell nods, but before she can speak, Mr. Bell interjects. “He’s a good boy, Father. I don’t know how that demon got hold of him, but it’s not his fault.” His entire body seems to bristle, his voice hard and insistent.

“None of this is his fault,” agrees Tomas. Mr. Bell relaxes, leaning back into the couch. His wife’s hand on his thigh seems to soothe him. “I want to know more about his youth group, his friends?”

“One in the same, really,” says Mrs. Bell. “Thick as thieves, those kids. It’s so funny, you’ve never seen kids of so many ages so close.”

“It’s kind of special for kids. Once they get old enough to join, they all hang out in the basement of the church, sometimes they do outings.” Mr. Bell shrugs. “There’s not really much to say about it. Pretty much all the congregation kids who are old enough to be out on their own are in it.”

“Do you have some names of some of the children I can talk to?” presses Tomas.

Mrs. Bell shifts in her seat and Mr. Bell frowns. “I’m not sure that we should—”

“I just don’t think it would be appropriate,” Mrs. Bell finishes.

“I don’t understand,” Tomas protests. “If we can help Elijah—”

“No,” Mr. Bell interrupts. “I don’t want anyone outside this family involved.”

Tomas opens his mouth to protest, but Marcus’ footsteps silence him. “You have a lovely family,” says Marcus, crossing the room to lean against Tomas’ armrest.

“Thank you,” replies Mrs. Bell, tired and hollow.

Marcus leans down, his lips ghosting Tomas’ ear, his breath hot on his neck. “We need to hurry.”

Tomas shivers. He stands, so abruptly he nearly topples his chair. “I think we have all we need for now. We should prepare.”

“Now?” Mr. Bell asks, and Tomas cannot tell if his voice is hopeful or fearful.

“The sooner the better,” Marcus replies, then he whispers to Tomas. “Outside.”

Tomas bows his head to the couple and follows Marcus out the front door and into the crisp, night air. He hugs his arms close to himself against the cold. Marcus doesn’t turn back to him until they are at the truck. Marcus reaches into the cab, grabbing their bags, pulling out glass jars of holy water that clink together in his arms, stuffing a cross under his arm.

“Marcus,” says Tomas. It’s a question, but he doesn’t know what he’s asking.

“We’re not getting anywhere with this —the longer we screw around asking questions, the stronger the hold the demon has on Elijah.” Marcus doesn’t look up from his bags.

“I know.” Tomas lays a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “Did something happen with the girls? Did they say anything?”

Marcus is shaking under his hand. Tomas can’t tell if it’s with fury or fear. A jar of holy water tumbles from his arms and lands with a dull thunk in the dirt driveway. Tomas bends to pick it up before Marcus can —it’s cold in his hand, the water is heavy. It seems so ridiculous that something so essential, so holy, be kept in a mason jar patterned with leaves and grapes, the remnants of a homemade jam label are still sticky on the lid.

“Teresa asked me if we could save him.” Marcus lets out a harsh bark of a breath, it’s a parody of a laugh.

“Can’t we?” asks Tomas. His chest feels too tight.

“You didn’t see him,” Marcus says. It’s not a reply.

“What did you tell her?”

“Until she took my hand, until I had to look her in the eye, I would have said ‘yes’, I would have—” Marcus’ hand shoots out to steady himself on the truck. His breaths are harsh and ragged, and he’s still trembling.

“We can do this, Marcus,” Tomas assures him, or maybe himself. “We’re getting pretty damn good at this whole exorcism thing.” He smiles, though Marcus doesn’t turn to look at him.

“I told her as much. I told her we’d done this before,” his laugh is bitter. “Children are too damn smart for their own good, won’t take evasion for an answer.”

“She didn’t believe you,” Tomas extrapolates.

“She just said, ‘please’.” Marcus straightens, and Tomas’ hand slides off his back. “We should go.”

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Marcus walks towards the shadow behind the house and leaves Tomas no choice but to follow or be left alone in the glow of the porch light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, hit me up on [tumblr](http://possiblydistasteful.tumblr.com/) I need to scream about these boys. Next chapter probably not up until the new year because the next few weeks are gonna be insane and I have a bunch of Christmas presents to write and I need to update a WIP. Love you all~


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomas finally comes face to face with Elijah Bell, but there is something more to this possession. There are secrets in this town darker than anything locked in the root cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the long and unexpected hiatus, school is killer and I've had a lot of 12-15 hour days. I took some me time to finish this chapter so I can start wrapping up the last two chapters of this story. 
> 
> WARNING: this chapter contains topics that can be triggering for some. I've chosen not to use archive warnings so please check the end notes for a heads up if you're worried about anything you might read.

The root cellar draws closer, but Tomas is ready for the itching in the back of his skull and steels himself for the moment when Marcus throws open the doors. The black hole stares up at him like the open mouth of some giant beast—a childhood nightmare. Below, he can hear scratching and whispering from the pit’s sole inhabitant.

Marcus enters the blackness of the cellar first. He lights the way with the flashlight from his cell phone. Tomas follows him, descending down a steep set of wooden steps, hands grasping blindly for purchase. 

“Back so soon,  _ Father _ ?” spits the voice in the dark, an insult, mockery of a name Marcus no longer has claim to. Tomas’ eyes are only just adjusting to the gloom. The too white light from the flashlight illuminates the crouching form on the floor, its shadow disappearing and reappearing from behind thick cement columns.  

Marcus reaches overhead and pulls the chain on the naked bulb and exposes the room. The walls are covered floor to ceiling in wooden shelves nailed to thick beams. Some still have glass jars of pickled vegetables and jams, others have been torn from their posts and lie in splinters on the ground. Glass shards and jarless lids shine in the dim light. The floor is cement like the walls behind the beams, like the pillars that hold up this house. The demon that wears Elijah Bell’s flesh does not flinch or cower; it grins with yellow teeth and sits on the filthy ground, legs splayed. 

“You brought a  _ friend _ .” Tomas does not like the way the demon says ‘friend’. It sounds sensual, inviting, and obscene coming from the mouth of a teenage boy. Fear settles in Tomas’ gut, but fear is an old friend now--he fears failure more than he fears the monster before him. Marcus slides their bag off his shoulder and begins to arrange their supplies on a fragile wooden table. Tomas tears his gaze from the sick boy and is at Marcus’ side, lining up jars, his fingers running over the smooth beads of his rosary. Marcus’ rosary is already wrapped around his pale wrist, black beads stark on his skin. 

“So your God sends a castoff and a runaway priest? I guess he doesn’t think much of little Elijah Bell.” 

Tomas tears his gaze away from Marcus and back to his work. The demon is testing the waters, probing at their minds to find hope and fear and shame, always looking for shame. 

“God doesn’t care—”

“I do,” Marcus interrupts. He turns to face the demon and Tomas follows him, Bible in one hand and a crucifix in the other. Marcus has his rosary and an open jar of holy water.

The demon in Elijah is chained to a drain in the floor, his ankle raw from where it has chafed. Marcus sets his jar out of reach of the demon, wetting the cross on his rosary and the tips of his fingers. He kneels and reaches for the demon who snarls and snaps at his fingers with vicious teeth. Marcus is faster than Elijah’s stolen flesh, and his hands clasp the demon’s  sallow cheeks.

_ “How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! _

_ How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations! _

_ For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven,  _

_ I will exalt my throne above the stars of God:  _

_ I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north: _

_ I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the most High. _

_ Yet thou shalt be brought down to hell, to the sides of the pit.” _

Tomas knows the verse, has seen it circled in black charcoal in Marcus’ beautiful and blasphemous Bible. Alone, Tomas has skimmed the edges of the words and hid guilty, blackened fingers behind his back when Marcus caught him.

The demon howls and hisses, but can not shake the hands from its face. Marcus’ hands caress Elijah’s pale skin, brushing strands of damp hair from a sweat soaked forehead. Tomas steps forward with his rosary and the demon turns its attentions to him. It licks dry lips and the cracking mouth splits into a grin.

“You’re very handsome, aren’t you?” it asks, eyes glittering in the dim light. “I bet you’re used to getting whatever you want. Everyone loves you, the good looking priest, so sweet and pious.”

_ “How art thou fallen from heaven…”  _ Tomas follows Marcus’ lead with a white knuckled grip on the cross, beads dangle past his wrist.

The demon laughs, a horrible crackling noise that shakes his courage. Marcus isn’t looking at him; all his attention is on the demon and the words spilling from his own lips, the power of repetition. The demon watches him from over Marcus’ shoulder and when the grin spreads wider than should even be possible, Tomas feels the air around him shift.

His breath is ripped from his lungs even as he tries to shout, to speak, to whisper holy words to fight back against this monster. He falls to his knees and Marcus is at his side, holding him upright. Marcus helps him back to his feet and together they close in on the demon, speaking in unison.

_ “Lucifer, son of the morning! _

_ How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!” _

The demon flinches and Tomas can breathe again, gasping for air and leaning into Marcus’ steadying grip. Marcus will not let him fall. He grits his teeth as their voices raise together, moving as one with practiced ease. He can do this, they can do this. 

They offer the demon no quarter, assaulting it with a relentless barrage of prayer. Marcus’ voice begins to grow hoarse and Tomas can feel his own doing the same. He has lost track of the time, it may have been only a few hours, it may have been as long as a day. The demon is still for the first time since they began. It has fought ferociously until now, and though Tomas fears it is all an act, he still turns to Marcus to offer relief.

“Go, drink something, rest a bit,” he insists. Marcus shakes his weary head.

“I don’t need—” Marcus’ throat cracks, his voice disappearing entirely for a moment. Tomas gives him a pointed look. Marcus sighs and relents. “Ten minutes, then you’ll do the same.”

Tomas nods and takes a seat on an overturned milk crate. He doesn’t engage demons on his own, that’s the rule, but he can still pray. Marcus’ footsteps disappear up the steps, the trap door slams shut overhead. The room is unnaturally still.

“So, do you get everything you want, Tomas?” The demon smiles. It’s a slow, cruel slash from cheek to cheek, lips curling away from its teeth.

Tomas doesn’t respond, he knows better than to respond. He prays under his breath, forehead pressed to his clasped hands. He clears his mind of anything but simple words he’s said thousands of times over.

“Come now, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a gift really, your beauty.”

When Tomas doesn’t respond, the demon shifts, its chains rattling. It crawls as close to Tomas as it can get. He will not be intimidated, even as the demon contorts in grotesque movements, straining for Tomas who sits just out of arm’s reach. He closes his eyes, his own breath hot on his hands.

“Tomas,” says Jessica, her voice low and sensual. Tomas closes his eyes tighter. He expects it now; he has yet to meet a demon that doesn’t try to use her. The demon prods, he can feel it searching with every breathy moan. He dare not open his eyes. He can endure.

“Poor Tomas, all alone,” Jessica sneers. Tomas stands and extends his arm, the cross clutched so tightly it is hot in his hand.

_ “Dios te salve—” _

Jessica grabs his wrist and yanks him down. He tumbles off the crate and to his knees, her face so close he can smell the fetid breath of the rotten thing. It kisses him. He endures. He pushes back and can smell burning flesh with his cross pressing against the demon’s cheek. It bites his lip. They both howl in pain and separate. Blood dribbles down Tomas’ chin and he wipes it away with his sleeve.

“I can taste your shame,” it leers. Tomas only sees Elijah now, a long X burned into his cheek.

He thinks only of God, of Elijah.

_ “ _ _ Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia _ _ —” _

“Oh Tomas,” it purrs.

_ “ _ _ El Seńor es contigo _ _ —” _

“I can see you.”

_ “ _ _ Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres.” _

“You have no secrets from me.”

_ “Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesú—” _

“I know what you’re hiding from,” says Marcus.

Tomas can not stop his eyes from snapping open and in that moment he is betrayed by the blood in his head, rushing so that every word sounds as if from far away, betrayed by his heart that is fit to burst. The demon smiles with Elijah’s mouth.

_ “B-bendito es el fruto de—” _

“I stand corrected. You don’t get  _ everything _ you want.” Tomas can breathe again when it speaks with its own crackling voice. The words mean nothing, it means nothing.

_ “...fruto de to vientre: Jes _ _ ús. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios—” _

“You think he wants you?”

_ “Ruega por nosotros pecadores—” _

“You’re nothing but a tool to him.”

_ “Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte—” _

“But, I want you,” Marcus whispers, too close. Tomas can smell the stench even as his body strains to contain its response. His lips part and the words are gone, the breath crushed from his lungs by three words.

“Stop,” he commands. “You will not use his voice, unclean spirit!”

“I can give you what you need,” Marcus murmurs. Elijah shambles closer until it is forced to crawl on its belly, the chain on its ankle the only thing keeping Tomas out of reach. Its fingers strain for him. “See how I want you.”

_ “The power of Christ compels you!” _

“Little Elijah doesn’t want your help,” the demon growls even as it shrinks back. “He begged me for power and I gave it to him. I’ll make you beg, too.”

_ “The Power of Christ compels you!” _

“Tomas! Tomas!”

Hands on his shoulders, pulling him back. He hadn’t even noticed how close he’d gotten to the creature until Marcus, the real Marcus, pulls him back, strong hands steady and firm on his shoulders.

Air comes in shuddering breaths. His body trembles. The rosary falls to the floor with a clatter, beads slipping through his fingers. He pushes past Marcus and out of the cellar. He raises a hand to shield his eyes, blinded by the late afternoon sun.

“Tomas!”

He turns to find Marcus climbing out of the dark after him. He feels too light. He doesn’t notice his legs trembling until Marcus catches him before he falls. He pushes Marcus away with desperate hands, as if Marcus will be able to see his most shameful thoughts simply by touching him.

Marcus frowns but relents, pulling his hands away. Tomas sways in the grass like the tall weeds around his ankles, shuddering in the breeze.

“What happened?” asks Marcus.

Tomas shakes his head; he cannot speak. The demon stole Marcus’ voice and now it seems it has taken Tomas’ tongue.

“...Tomas?” Marcus reaches for him again and it is only when Tomas flinches that Marcus remembers and steps back.

“I have been compromised,” he admits, eyes on his scuffed shoes.

Marcus curses, “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“I know,” he says, running hands over his face to hide from Marcus’ gaze.

“No… I meant—”

“It’s alright,” he protests, “I know. But there is work for me out here too.”

“What do you mean?” Marcus crosses his arms, Tomas still can not meet his eye.

“The demon, he said Elijah asked for his help. If this is true, if Elijah is going to fight back, we need to know why.”

Marcus stands still and silent for a moment before reaching into his pocket and tossing him the car keys. “Alright,” he relents. “I’ll watch the boy, but be quick about it.”

“I will,” he says, keys cutting into the palm of his clenched fist. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

* * *

It isn’t until he pulls out of the front drive and starts down the long road back into town that Tomas realizes where he is going. He cranks the window down and lets the crisp air rush into his lungs. He can breathe again. He takes solace in the fact that the demon will not tell his secrets to Marcus, there would be no point without him there to complete the scene.

He pulls up to the diner with windswept hair and pink cheeks. He licks his dry lips and pushes inside, eyes scanning the empty restaurant for his quarry. He finds Sandra leaning against the back counter, staring up at an old television. The picture is mostly static, but he can make out the outline of a baseball game. She jumps when the door shuts, ringing the service bell. Her eyes widen when she sees him but she steadies trembling hands to gesture in front of her.

“Take any you like, Father.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking a seat at the counter. She sets down a coffee cup and fills it before he even asks for one. She rushes past him and busies herself with the coffee machine, her trembling hands spilling coffee grounds all over the counter. The rest of the diner is empty save for the sole cook bent over the sink in the back. Tomas pours cream and sugar in his coffee, though it does not disguise the flavour of mediocre lukewarm coffee. He looks forward to the fresh pot.

Sandra stands with her back to him, her shoulders raised. It is a standoff that will have to end soon as the pot begins to fill. Tomas clears his throat.

“Sandra,” he says, keeping his voice low and calm, the kind of voice he used when taking confession.

She spins to face him, her body taut as if ready to bolt. Her wide eyes remind him so much of a wounded animal.

“Please,” he says. “Tell me, are you alright?” 

“Fine,” she lies, her body stiff as a rail. “Can I get you a menu?”

“Just coffee.” He smiles. Sandra doesn’t smile back. She wipes spilled grounds from the counter with a filthy rag, rubbing the same spot in slow rhythmic circles until there can’t be a single speck left. The coffee machine beeps and the final drips drop into the pot. She grabs it, noting Tomas’ now empty cup.

“I was hoping to ask you about Elijah Bell—”

Sandra drops the pot and it falls to the floor in an explosion of glass and boiling coffee. She shrieks and leaps back. Tomas looks into the back for the cook, but it seems he’s gone on a break, for the back kitchen is empty. Tomas stands, looking for a rag.

Sandra drops to her knees, yanking the rag from her apron and mopping at the steaming mess. She mutters a string of incomprehensible apologies that match Tomas’ own. Spotting a broom, he grabs it and steps behind the counter. 

“Please,” he insists. “Let me. You’ll cut yourself.”

Sandra steps back mutely, allowing Tomas to start sweeping at the puddle. Together they manage to clean up the mess, though Tomas manages to nick his finger in the process. He sucks on it while Sandra fetches him a bandaid.

“Thank you,” he says as she wraps it. She smiles at him, the first one she’s directed at him. It’s small and tight, but she looks him in the eye as she does it.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” he says. Sandra looks away. “I’m only here to help.”

Sandra shakes her head. Her name tag is crooked and she has coffee spatter on her apron.  “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Sandra…”

“I don’t know anything!” she shouts. She slaps a hand over her mouth and her shoulders shake as she begins to cry. Tomas glances back to the kitchen, but the chef is still missing, probably out back, smoking or on his phone.

Tomas leans in conspiratorially. “I know something’s not right here, but I can’t help him, or you, if I don’t know what is going on.”

“I can’t,” she pleads. “If anyone knew I talked to you…”

She glances back towards the still empty kitchen, tucking her trembling hands under her arms.

“You can trust me,” he assures her, placing his hands on the table, palms up. Her eyes dart to the collar at his throat. Tomas feels as if his insides have turned to ice, cold dread creeping from his stomach and up his throat to choke him.

She chews her lips and Tomas knows now that she won’t tell him anything.

“I understand,” he tells her. He reaches into his wallet, pulling out his last twenty. Sandra fumbles for her change purse and he shakes his head. “Keep it.”

_ “Keep it.”  _ Like that would fix anything.

In the car, the ice in his belly boils and turns to white hot rage. He slams on the gas pedal and tears past empty fields. The radio crackles with white noise that sounds too much like the demon in Elijah. 

It’s growing dark by the time Tomas pulls up in front of St. Jerome’s. His hands hurt from how hard he’s been clutching the steering wheel. The parking lot is empty save for his own truck. The windows are dark, but he can see a light in the carriage house across the garden.

His palms ache on the steering wheel and when he lets go, he feels the blood rush back to his fingertips, hot and tingling.

“Damnit,” he curses, slamming his hand on the wheel. “Damnit!”

He doesn’t let himself glance at the light as he pulls away. He tastes blood from biting his cheek so hard.

* * *

The stars are out when Tomas arrives back at the Bell residence. He finds Marcus sitting on the front steps, alone in the dark, a clove cigarette dangling from his fingertips, unlit. Marcus looks up with hollow eyes at Tomas approaches.

“Is it true?” Marcus asks.

“Is what true?” Tomas almost falls right there, his legs weak with fleeing adrenaline.

“Father Amos… is it true?”

Relief and fury wage a war inside Tomas and he finds he can’t speak when he opens his mouth. An angry tear leaks from the corner of his eye.

“Fuck,” Marcus curses, “FUCK!” He grasps his head with impotent rage.

The screen door creaks open and Mrs. Bell appears, a slouching silhouette. “Fathers?” She asks, her voice trembling. “Has something…”

“More of the same, Mrs. Bell, but we’re making progress,” says Tomas, finding his voice.

She believes them because she has to and the door shuts with a definitive click.

“That son of a bitch,” Marcus growls.

“I—I went to the church,” Tomas confesses. “I almost got out of the car… I would have…” he looks down at his hands as if he can see the unspilled blood.

“I don’t think I could have driven away,” says Marcus

Tomas shakes. Marcus takes his arm and eases him down onto the front steps, taking a seat beside him. Their thighs press together; Marcus wraps an arm over Tomas’ shoulders. Tomas can feel his hand, tense and furious, gripping his shoulder. He is a rock and Marcus is a drowning man.

“Elijah, and Sandra, and others too… How many has this man hurt?” Tomas doesn’t want the answer, but he knows he must have it regardless.

“They won’t be the first that The Church has failed.” Marcus’ voice is hot and bitter; he spits the words as if he can be rid of them. There is a story, or maybe more than one story, that fuels that hatred. Tomas knows better than to ask, not now, not when they have a job to do.

“Then  _ we _ can not fail them as well.”

Marcus looks at him with shining eyes. Perhaps it is gratitude that makes Marcus reach up and run his fingers through Tomas’ hair, fingers at the nape of his neck. He pulls them close together so their foreheads rest against each other’s. Tomas can smell his hot breath, the sweat from his skin, the rotten stench of the demon that clings to him. He wants to kiss his eyelids and his cheeks and his mouth--the corners first, saving the soft give at the centre of his chapped lips for last. He wants to chase away Marcus’ anger and fear with lips on his stubbled jaw.

“Thank you,” says Marcus, pulling away too soon. Tomas holds himself back from chasing that contact, from grabbing his hand and putting it back, or from (God forbid) actually leaning into him for a kiss.

He has no time for this, Elijah has no time for this. He stands, offering his hand to Marcus (a brief, final indulgence). Marcus takes it and Tomas is fortified. He swallows what he can, breathing until he can feel his heart slow. Marcus is on his feet and Tomas follows him back to the cellar door. This demon could ruin everything, it could spill all of Tomas’ darkest secrets and destroy the fragile trust between them. Tomas can’t care, not now. If Marcus hates him for it, then at the very least he knows that it won’t stop them from saving Elijah. Marcus has the look of a mad man. He will not allow anyone to fail that boy again

* * *

The demon screams in agony that quickly turns to sick laughter. It’s been hours of the same, but their resolve cannot be shaken.

“You think he wants your help?” it hisses. “I give him safety, protection, strength. What can you offer him but broken promises?”

“A demon with a sense of charity? I’m sure you get nothing out of this bargain?” replies Marcus.

“He wants you to leave,” it presses, screeching as holy water hisses and steams on its skin.

Tomas stands back, Marcus’ Bible in hand, reading a passage Marcus selected for him. The ink around it is worn from years of use. The demon has yet to come after him, to take his turn mocking and tormenting Tomas. Marcus has made himself the centre of the demon’s attentions with accusations of trickery and deceit. He pleas to Elijah, locked inside his own mind, for him to fight back against the foul creature.

Marcus drops to his knees, dragging Elijah into his arms. Tomas can’t hear what he murmurs into the boy’s ear, but he knows they will be words of love and forgiveness. The demon thrashes, striking Marcus across the jaw. It leaves angry red marks across his pale cheek. Marcus does not falter, and the boy is gathered in his tight embrace.

So far there has been no sign that Elijah has heard them. Tomas fears it may be days before there is even the slightest hint of his consciousness. He will not let himself doubt; he will stay as long as it takes and so will Marcus. While their will is strong, their bodies begin to tire; it has been a day and a half since either of them slept, and the demon is vicious and powerful. Tomas fears leaving Elijah alone and he is sure Marcus feels the same; the boy is not yet integrated, but it is only a matter of time if something does not change.

_ “Let all those that seek thee rejoice and be glad in thee.”  _ Tomas’ voice grows hoarse, but he forces himself to speak louder.  _ “Let such as love thy salvation say continually: The Lord be magnified.” _

The demon’s head whips around to look at him, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. “Tomas,” it purrs. “I couldn’t see you back there.”

Marcus steps between them, blocking the demon’s eyeline. “Would you protect him from me, Marcus?”

_ “But I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinketh upon me: thou art—” _

“Yes, you are needy, aren't you Tomas?” asks the demon in a delighted singsong.

_ “Thou art my—” _

“You need to feel  _ wanted _ ,” it moans.

Tomas will not be taunted, he will not be—

“With your  _ greed  _ and your  _ pride… _ you’d make a beautiful vessel.”

Tomas’ lungs are paralyzed. Nothing comes out of his mouth even as it opens and shuts in a facsimile of speech.

“Focus, Tomas,” comes Marcus’ voice, confidant, commanding.

“I thought dear Tomas would be the one with the temper, but your anger,” the demon sniffs the air in front of him, savouring some unknown scent, “it’s delightful. I wonder how much it would take to rile up our boy over there.”

“He’s not your boy,” Marcus growls. “You will not have him.”

“Is that a challenge, Marcus?”

Tomas swallows and wets his dry throat,  _ “The Lord thinketh upon me: thou art my help and my deliverer.” _

“You think God is listening to  _ you,  _ after everything you’ve done?” The demon laughs, “I think I would have a better chance of calling upon the Almighty.”

_ “Make no tarrying; O, my God.” _

“You will not have him, you will not have Elijah,” Marcus spits. “If he wanted you, you’d have him already.”

The demon laughs and Tomas feels it echo deep in his core. He can only see Marcus’ back, but he knows the demon looks straight at him as it says, “You hear that, Tomas? Sound advice, wouldn’t you say?”

Bile rises in Tomas’ throat. It burns and chokes him. He will not flee, no matter the cost. He starts again.

_ “I waited patiently for the Lord; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.”  _ The hiss of evaporating holy water, and then an unholy cry of agony assaults his ears.

“Does he know what you’ve done, Tomas?” it screeches at him. 

Even as his knees weaken, he cannot falter.  _ “He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay...”  _ Everything is so far away, he can not hear for the blood rushing in his ears, an echo that sounds like the ocean at the end of a tunnel. His own words are faint, though he can feel himself form them.

Sharp and clear, as if inside his own head the demon speaks, “Does he know how you  _ need him _ ?” There is another hiss and screech as Marcus spatters the demon in holy water.

“Does he know he was the one you thought of, when you were… how do you Catholics put it?  _ Abusing _ yourself.” It seems time has frozen to give the demon enough time to speak its vile truth. If Marcus spoke over it, Tomas did not hear for all the blood rushing under his skin; it’s like a river and he can hear it roar.

This time when his legs give out, Marcus does not catch him when he falls. His knees hit the concrete with a sickening crack, agony making him cry out. That, he can hear, as well as Marcus’ sharp voice, though not the words. He doesn’t hear anything else over the ringing in his ears. He drops the Bible and his legs carry him out of the cellar and into the frigid dawn.

Hand against the side of the truck, he throws up water and coffee. He should probably go rest. His dry eyes burn with exhaustion, but the thought of the Bell’s guest bedroom makes him queasy all over again. Marcus is calling for him, standing on the edge of the trap door.

“—mas, Tomas!”

When Tomas doesn’t respond, Marcus rushes over, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Tomas?”

Tomas flinches, pulling his arm away. “I’m sorry, I should have—“  _ stopped myself, come clean, never met you.  _ No, he can’t bring himself to regret that last part.

In the cold morning air, he can finally breathe. Marcus stares at him with searching eyes that Tomas can’t meet. Marcus wants to say something, the air between them is thick with it, but perhaps it is Tomas’ pathetic expression that stops him.

“You should rest,” Marcus tells him. Tomas nods. His bleary eyes agree, but his pounding heart says otherwise. The Bell’s promised them use of their guest room, but the thought of it makes Tomas queasy. Instead, he crawls into the cab of the truck, folding his body until he can lay along the front seat while Marcus climbs back down the stairs to the cellar. His collar jabs him in the throat and he rips it off, clutching it in his sweaty fist.

* * *

Tomas sleeps fitfully. The sun is soon out and it shines through his lids, waking him from what could barely be considered a slumber. His cheek is imprinted with the pattern of his seat, drool crusting the corner of his mouth. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.

He checks his phone. It’s only half past six in the morning and it’s… it’s Sunday, he realizes with a bitter laugh. Marcus has not come back for him. He battles the demon underground. Tomas… Tomas can start his fight with the one who walks in the daylight.

He sends Marcus a quick note and receives no reply. He fixes his hair in the rear view mirror, smooths his hands over his shirt, tucks his collar back in and zips his jacket up over it.

He starts the car and tears down the road towards St. Jerome’s.

He is forced to park on the road as the lot is full. He pulls over, half in a ditch, and wanders into the church, hands in his pockets.

The pews of the small, country church are mostly full. The families of this parish don’t seem to stand on ceremony, most wearing jeans and clean shirts at best. In the back corner, he spots Sandra in her work uniform. She is sitting alone, her head bowed and cheeks pale, hands clasped between her knees. He startles her when he slides in beside her. He mimics her posture, his hands clasped in prayer and his head bent low. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye, but as he expected, she doesn’t greet him.

Raising his hands to his mouth, miming quiet prayer, he whispers to her, “I can stop Father Amos. I can stop all of this.”

She shakes her head, almost too subtle to be noticed. She mirrors him, disguising her own response with clasped hands. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you feel like the church doesn’t care—“ Tomas is interrupted by Father Amos’ arrival at the pulpit. He greets his parishioners with a wide smile and a wave. Tomas has to swallow his anger as he watches the jovial man preach the virtues of generosity and neighbourliness in troubled times. He seems to be making vague allusions to the Bell family, but if the rest of the town has any idea of their situation, Tomas has no idea.

There is a small nudge to his thigh and he sees a folded piece of paper on his knee. Sandra is stuffing a pen back in her pocket, the edge of her waitress’ notepad poking out. Quietly as he can, Tomas unfolds it and reads,  _ ‘After. Your truck.’  _ Tomas manages to catch the corner of her eye and give her a subtle nod. Her shoulders sag with what Tomas hopes is relief.

The sermon lasts longer than Tomas would normally allow his own to run. He can see a few of the younger children start to squirm in their seats and even some of the elderly are beginning to nod off. Father Amos has an enthusiasm that seems to be infectious for many of the younger crowd, however. It makes Tomas’ blood boil that he would use that charisma for his own ends.

He intends to shuffle out of the church with the rest of the parishioners, head low and avoiding eye contact with other churchgoers. Father Amos’ voice rings out behind him, “Father Alexis!”

It is a sin, but Tomas resents his jovial nature, hates his happy countenance. No one who has caused such misery has a right to that kind of ease; perhaps God will let it slide given the severity of Amos’ own misdeeds.

“Father Amos,” says Tomas, turning with a smile he can barely maintain. He can only hope the ruse will last the length of the conversation. Father Amos takes Tomas’ hand and shakes it vigorously; it is all Tomas can do not to snatch it away or strike him.

“How is poor Elijah fairing?” Amos asks with genuine concern. How dare he even say the boy’s name.

“He has been through a lot,” is Tomas’ vague reply.

“And his sisters?” It is an innocent enough question. Tomas needs to leave before he does something he can’t undo.

“Frightened,” he says, an honest enough answer. “I must be getting back, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Of course!” says Father Amos amiably. He makes a sweeping gesture towards the door. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Tomas cannot be out the doors fast enough. Once outside, he has to force his body not to break into a run. His heart races when he reaches his truck and finds no one standing beside it, but upon opening the door, he finds Sandra slunk low in the passenger seat. She looks at him with tired, shiny eyes. She doesn’t need to say anything, Tomas pulls away as quickly as possible, as glad to see the church fade in the distance as his passenger.

He doesn’t speak to her until they are a safe distance away. The fields flash by, and Tomas drives fast enough that no one should see them long enough to recognize them. He picks no particular destination other than away.

“Sandra, I—“

“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not…” She sighs into her hands, running fingers through her frizzy hair. “Take the next right.”

“I don’t know what you think I know, but I do know Father Amos hurt Elijah.” Tomas speaks slowly, carefully. “Has he hurt anyone else?”

Sandra’s laugh is a harsh, barking thing, bitter and furious. “Christ, I really hope you meant what you said.”

“Meant what I said?” Tomas studies her, her lost, pained expression, her chapped lips and stained uniform. She looks like a girl someone abandoned.

“That you can help, that you can stop this.” She looks at him and the fear from the diner is back, her wide eyes make her look so young. She is so young. It’s the cruelest injustice that she was forced to grow up so fast.

“I promise I will not rest until things are right.” It’s a dangerous promise to make, but it’s the only one Tomas’ conscience will allow. He will not be just another person to abandon this girl with her wide eyes that have seen too much, an expression too old for her face.

She doesn’t say anything other than directions until they pull up next to a sizeable building made of corrugated tin. It’s rusted and weather worn, but the chains on the doors look shiny and new. Sandra marches over to the barn doors, yanking the padlock off.

“Just a dummy to scare off vagrants,” she tells him, carelessly tossing it and the chains to the dusty ground. She slides the doors open. They screech in protest, but she is able to do it on her own. It’s a good thing, too, since Tomas is useless, glued to the spot as the light spills in and Tomas sees inside.

There are no lights but what comes through the holes in the worn roof and the sunlight spilling through the open doors. Tomas tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. He can feel comprehension drawing closer and he fears its arrival with every second he spends staring into the gloomy barn.

The walls are covered in candles, the cheap kind his  _ abuela  _ would buy from corner stores, tall colourful pillars in glass containers, stickers with the faces of saints or the sacred heart affixed to their sides. Some sit on the floor as well, around a splintery looking workbench that has been covered in a cream coloured sheet. As he gets closer, he can see the small rusty stains clustered on the side closest to the door. They could have been left by a small cut or a bloody nose, but is is unmistakably blood. On a pillar behind the workbench hangs a frightening looking crucifix, Jesus’ face is twisted in agony or ecstasy, it is hard to tell in the dark. The more he looks around, the more religious paraphernalia he sees. A few different copies of the Bible, mostly English but a few other copies as well; one in Spanish, one in Latin, another even in French. The crucifix above the bench is not the only one, and there are a variety of other crosses nailed haphazardly to the walls and beams.

He takes out his phone and begins to take photographs, as many as he can. Marcus needs to see this. Marcus would understand. His dawning horror is enough to chase away even his fear of speaking to his partner. His humiliation can wait, this is…

Sandra stands by the table, looking down at the rusty stains. Her body sways like all the strength has been drained from her. Tomas stands by her side, his hand hovering over her shoulder before he thinks better of it, letting his hand drop.

“There wasn’t this much before,” she observes, as if talking about the weather.

“Whose blood is that?” Tomas asks, fighting to keep his voice even. He fears that he might startle her with any unexpected displays, that she might bolt, or clam up.

“Mine,” she says. “Some of it anyways. I don’t know who else has been here since.”

Tomas takes a slow breath before his next question. “Where did it come from?”

He eyes the edge of the yellowing bruise on her neck. He sees the blood, only on the bottom third of the sheet. If she lay down on that bench, he knows exactly where those blood stains would line up with her anatomy. She looks at him and she knows she doesn’t have to answer that particular question.

“Father Amos…” He can’t finish the thought, he’s not even sure what he’s finishing. His head swims and, for a moment, he sways in place, fearing his legs will buckle. 

“Father Amos didn’t do this,” she jabs the stain with her finger, “not to me at least.” Her shoulders shake, but to her credit she doesn’t cry. Her face is as white as the sheet in front of her. Her trembling hand caresses the bench, her fingers just touching the edge of the first bloody smear. “Elijah did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big Warnings: off screen referenced child abuse, off screen referenced rape 
> 
> I chose not to put these in the main tags because I wanted to avoid potential spoilers and I really didn't want anyone to think I was in any way explicit in my depictions of the above.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an exorcism to finish and plans to be made...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same trigger warnings as for the last chapter. This is the longest one yet at about 7.5k and should be the second to last chapter if I can keep the wordcount down on the epilogue.

_ “Elijah did.”  _

Tomas hears her speak. The words repeat over and over in his head until they stop being words, yet he still can’t make sense of them.

“Why?” is all he can say. It’s inadequate in every way. Sandra stares at him, disguising her distress with affected confusion, though her eyes water and she is barely holding back her tears as it is. Her mouth opens to answer, but instead of words, her throat makes a harsh croaking noise. She gasps for air and that is when her tears spill over and begin rolling down her cheeks. She’s furiously wiping them with her hands, turning her shoulder to Tomas as if he won’t notice. He reaches for her, a hand hovering over her shoulder, unsure if his touch will be welcome. When he finally rests his hand on her, she falls into him and Tomas has to wrap both his arms around her shoulders to keep her upright.

He’s never been good at this, at watching people cry. He’s never sure what is too much or too little, if speaking or saying nothing will be more of a comfort. He holds her as she chokes, sobbing into his shirt; Tomas doesn’t think she has let herself cry before now.

He doesn’t make her stay in that rotting barn. He takes her back to the truck and gives her the remainder of a lukewarm water bottle he finds in the glove compartment. She blows her nose with fast food napkins and stuffs them in the cupholder.

“I guess you want to know why I didn’t go to the police?” she asks, her voice rough and thick.

“You don’t have to explain,” he tells her. He already knows. Her cheeks are blotchy and red under her swollen eyes.

She nods. “Father Amos... if I said anything, he’d just say I was a liar, and…” She looks down at her lap. “I didn’t want to get Elijah into trouble.”

“Elijah?” Tomas frowns. “I know you two are friends, but even so, after what he did… if you were hurt…”

She shakes her head, her fists balled in her lap. “He didn’t want to!” she insists. She squeezes her eyes shut, letting out a harsh sigh. “If he didn’t do it, Father Amos would, I—” Her voice cracks again and Tomas fears her tears will return. He’s running out of napkins.

“Did Father Amos threaten Elijah? Did he threaten you?” Tomas fights to keep his voice level. The last thing he wants is for Sandra to think he is angry with her.

“Youth group,” she says. “It’s part of the youth group, since we ‘can’t resist the temptation’.”

“Father Amos said that?” Tomas’ eyes are fixed to the barn, the rusted tin walls looking ready to give in at any moment.

“He says that—” Sandra’s voice is almost a whisper as she fights against her tears. “He says we’re all going to sin, so he’ll sanctify the act.”

“That’s…” Tomas has a lot of words to describe how he feels about that, none of which he wants to say to Sandra who is covering her mouth with her hand to muffle her sobs. “He’s wrong.”

It’s all he can think to say. There are no words for her, no platitudes he can offer, and why would she want them? The Church has betrayed her. Even without her saying it, he knows that she never would have tried to bring Father Amos to the police. She knows, as well as anyone who’s ever picked up a newspaper, that he would never suffer the consequences for his crimes. In a town like this, she’d only ostracize herself and her family.  

“Sandra?” he asks, gentle as he can. “Do you have somewhere I can take you? Somewhere you feel safe?”

“I’m supposed to be at work,” she mumbles into her hands. “They’re probably going to write me up for this.”

“Here.” Tomas hands her his cell phone. “Tell them you’re sick.”

She hesitates and then takes the phone, making her short call. Tomas can hear the irritation in her manager’s voice but she does not back down. When she hands the phone back to him her hands are steadier.

“Sorry about that,” she says. She rubs her hands together, anxiously pulling on her fingers.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he tells her. He smiles, but is not offended when she does not smile back. “Where can I take you?”

She doesn’t respond for a long while, even after Tomas starts the truck and pulls away from the barn. She chews her lips until they go white, tearing at the dry skin with her teeth.

“Sandra?” he asks again.

“I feel safe with you,” she finally responds. Tomas does not have it in himself to deny her.

* * *

 

Tomas is surprised to find Marcus sitting on the front steps of the Bell family’s home again. His stomach lurches as he sees him, legs splayed and head tilted back. There are new red welts that run from his cheek down his neck. He doesn’t sit up until the truck finally rolls to a stop, and he frowns upon seeing Tomas’ passenger. 

“Wait here,” he tells Sandra, then steps out of the truck.

His heart pounds in his throat as Marcus watches him with sharp eyes. He makes no move to get up so Tomas walks to him.

“Where were you?” asks Marcus. The tightness around his eyes belies his casual tone. Even standing over him, Tomas feels defenceless.  

“Church,” Tomas responds. He doesn’t mean for it to sound flippant. Marcus looks pointedly at the truck, at Sandra in the passenger seat.

“And the girl from the diner? I take it she was there too?”

“Marcus, things are worse than we imagined.”

Marcus stares at him with blank incomprehension.

“The girl, Sandra, I think you should talk to her,” says Tomas. He glances over his shoulder to see Sandra watching them, her lip bleeding from where she’s torn a strip of dry skin off with her teeth.

“Is she going to want to tell her story again?” Marcus asks.

“I think she will feel more comfortable with you.” Tomas’ fingers brush the edge of his collar and Marcus seems to understand. His eyes tighten and he steps past Tomas.

“Don’t go to the cellar without me,” he instructs. Tomas is only mildly offended considering his last few performances. He watches Marcus approach the truck, opening the driver’s side door. He smiles, and it’s bright and genuine. Sandra smiles back, despite her red eyes.

It feels wrong to watch, like he’s trespassing on something private. He looks at his feet, but he can still hear when Sandra begins to cry again. He glances up for a moment and sees her wrapped in Marcus’ arms, his chin resting on her head as he rubs her back in slow circles. Tomas tears his gaze away before he is caught looking.

Despite being midday, the sky is clouded over and there is a chill carried on the breeze. Tomas wishes he had more than a thin cardigan on; he shivers pathetically, not wanting to interrupt to get his jacket. He cups his hands over his mouth, trying to warm his numb fingers and doesn’t even notice that Marcus and Sandra have finished talking until the car door slams shut.

Sandra wears one of Tomas’ sweaters draped around her shoulders. Marcus must have gotten it for her. Her body is limp and she stumbles when she walks, despite her arm being linked with Marcus’. She’s like a dishrag that’s been wrung out and left to dangle off the edge of the sink, but Marcus is there to make sure she doesn’t fall.

Marcus’ face is hard and impossible to read. Even as he makes eye contact with Tomas, no understanding passes between them. Something about that makes Tomas’ heart ache.

“I’m taking her inside. She can sleep in the guest bedroom. I’m sure Mrs. Bell can have no objections,” says Marcus. Tomas nods and directs a weary smile at Sandra. She seems to look right through him, her eyes glazed with exhaustion.

When the screen door shuts, Tomas can just make out voices, though not what is being said. Mrs. Bell clearly does not have strong objections to her surprise guest, though, since Marcus re-emerges on his own, descending the stairs to stand beside Tomas.

“Fuck,” Marcus sighs. Tomas notices for the first time just how red Marcus’ own eyes have become. Tomas wants to touch his knee, or squeeze his shoulder, but he doesn’t know how welcome his hand will be, nor how much of the demon’s previous taunts still echo in his partner’s head. He stays silent, his hands clasped between his knees.

“You were right,” spits Marcus. “It is worse than we imagined.”

“Is she alright?” It’s not the question he means to ask, and by Marcus’ sharp look, it’s the wrong thing to say.

“Of course she isn’t alright,” he snaps. Tomas flinches and Marcus’ expression softens. “I’m not angry at you.”

“I know,” he lies.  

“Bennett can deal with Amos.” Marcus rubs his own shoulder absently. His face is pale and he looks ten years older. Every line on his weathered face seems carved inches deeper. “The Vatican will protect him, but we can at least get him removed from the parish and sent somewhere like St. Aquinas, somewhere far away from here.”

“What if they try and ‘rehabilitate’ him?” Tomas demands.

Marcus sneers and lets out a harsh bark of a laugh. “Oh, they can bloody well try. The Church may keep formal charges from being pressed with their dirty lawyers, but if they try and give him another parish... I‘ll do what I have to.” Marcus swallows and Tomas watches his mouth, watches the way the corners twitch downwards and his upper lip curls.

“Marcus…” Tomas feels Marcus’ anger, feels it under his own skin, too. Being able to see the future so clearly and being powerless to change it is like putting his hand in a pot of water and being unable to take it out when it starts to boil.  

“You know this is the Church’s fault,” Marcus snarls. “They make everything so dirty and shameful so men like Amos get drunk on power and hate.”

“We can’t fix what has been done,” says Tomas. He can hardly get his voice louder than a whisper. “But we can finish this exorcism and give these people a chance to heal.”

Marcus is still for a long time. Tomas is scared he’s said the wrong thing. Then Marcus lets out a long sigh, resting his head in his hands.

“We’re going to have to tell the family. At least the girls will have been safe.” Marcus stares out across the fields, the clouds overhead pale and grey as Marcus’ skin.

“Teresa,” Tomas gasps. “Elijah was so upset about her starting to menstruate.”

Marcus’ eyes widen, his jaw goes slack, then his mouth twists down like he’s just tasted something rotten. “Elijah knew Amos would... Christ, she’s only nine…”

“It’s enough to make anyone desperate, and if the demon was already courting him…” His hands shake and his skin burns, but in this, he is not helpless. He can save Elijah Bell. He  _ will  _ save Elijah Bell.

“We need to go back down there,” Marcus insists, standing. He brushes off his pants and steps back to watch Tomas with sharp eyes.

Tomas stands with less confidence. His heart is pounding too hard and it’s like daggers in his chest, stabbing pain he can barely school his face to conceal. He’s selfish to be so frightened. His humiliation is nothing to Elijah’s life. Marcus must see it in his eyes, for he says, “We have to work together if we’re going to destroy this thing. It will say anything to divide us and we can’t be divided, not now.”

His fear is for later. Now, he follows Marcus back down the steps into the cellar. The cool cement makes him shiver, the noises coming from Elijah’s throat make him shudder. The demon watches them with keen interest as they gather their tools once again. Tomas stands back, holding Marcus’ Bible, running his fingers over the abused pages.

“Ezekiel 28:14,” says Marcus, his voice firm, sure. His voice makes Tomas brave. Marcus kneels before the snapping, snarling thing chained to the floor. He holds out his arms to it as Tomas begins to read.

_ “Thou art the anointed cherub that covereth;  _

_ and I have set thee so: _

_ thou wast upon the holy mountain of God; _

_ thou hast walked up and down in the midst of the stones of fire.”  _ __  
  


“Back so soon, Father Tomas?” The demon smirks. Tomas meets its gaze. He will not be shamed. He will not be intimidated by this desperate thing.  __  
  


_ “Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created, till iniquity was found in thee.” _

“I don’t need to shame you, Tomas. You do such a good job of it yourself,” it sneers, clawing at Marcus when he draws too close.

“Look at me, not at him,” Marcus orders the demon.

“You’d protect him? The priest who can’t keep it in his pants?” The demon grins impossibly wide, like his mouth splits his face in two and his yellowed teeth are too big to fit. “You must have some idea now what he’s thought about  _ you _ , Marcus. What a pathetic, desperate, little creature he is. I almost feel sorry for him. Maybe you should let him have you.”

_ “By the multitude of thy merchandise they have filled the midst of thee with violence, and thou hast sinned,”  _ Tomas responds. The leather bound book, the holy words, they surround him, they shield him. He feels the truth resonate in his lungs, behind his ribs. He has sinned and he will atone. God would not punish Elijah for Tomas’ transgressions. As for Elijah, he is a child, frightened and alone. He can not believe God would abandon him, not now. He and Marcus have been sent here for a reason, they cannot fail.

The demon screeches as holy water burns its skin, and in its moment of distraction Marcus lunges forward, seizing Elijah’s wrists. “I am speaking now to Elijah Bell. God has not abandoned you. He will not abandon you.” Marcus drops his wrists. Elijah’s arms have gone stiff and rigid and stay in place. Marcus cups his face in his hands, running his thumbs over filthy cheeks. “If you can hear me, give us a sign.”

At first Elijah’s body is unnaturally still, frozen in place like time itself has stopped. Then, painfully slow, Elijah’s arms lower to his sides, dangling limp from his shoulders. His head tips back like it is too heavy for his neck, his jaw opens wide in a soundless scream, glazed eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A tear leaks from the corner of his eye, and then another, and another, until they stream down his cheeks, washing dirt and grime in little white lines.

Marcus waits, his hands hovering inches away from Elijah’s shoulders, his face painfully hopeful. Tomas sees his eyes, bright and wet with tears as he reaches for the battered boy who croaks, “I’m sorry.” He’s so quiet, Tomas isn’t even sure he’s heard him, but it’s enough for Marcus who grasps his shoulders and speaks of love.

_ “For the mountains may depart _

_    and the hills be removed, _ __  
_ but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, _ _  
_ __    and my covenant of peace shall not be removed.”

When the demon re-emerges to sink its teeth into Marcus’ shoulder, Tomas nearly drops Marcus’ Bible. Marcus howls in pain, but he turns back to Tomas and orders through gritted teeth, “Keep reading.”

_ “Thou hast defiled thy sanctuaries by the multitude of thine iniquities, _

_ by the iniquity of thy traffick;  _

_ therefore will I bring forth a fire from the midst of thee,  _

_ it shall devour thee,  _

_ and I will bring thee to ashes upon the earth in the sight of all them that behold thee.”  _

Tomas does not trip or stumble, his words are a sword and he can feel them cut into the demon and begin to sever it from its vessel. He feels the power under his skin, in his blood and in his bones. They are going to win.

* * *

They do not sleep for more than an hour or two each, always in shifts. Every moment they spend in that cellar, they can feel the demon weakening, they can see Elijah start to fight back. It’s heartening; many times they have performed exorcisms that they were not sure were even working until the last moment before the demon was banished. This demon is strong, but so is Elijah. 

There have been moments where Tomas felt his hold on Elijah slipping, where he felt the demon surge and his own powers lapsing. In those moments he looked to Marcus, his partner, exhausted and covered in filth, never wavering, his strength an anchor against the tides of Tomas’ doubt.

Tomas talks to the family. Before a week is out, they hover by the edge of the cellar, waiting for one of them to emerge with news. Tomas assures them with tales of exorcisms that have taken much longer--weeks, months even. He does not tell them that the ones that take that long usually do not end well; he does not say that the victim, if they survive, is usually so irreparably changed that they can never go back to their old lives. He does not tell them this because he knows no matter what happens, Elijah will be changed. He was changed before the demon wormed its way into his head. Tomas can not tell them about Father Amos yet. He does not have the words, and the thought of their pain is unbearable.

Sandra stays with the Bell’s. Mrs. Bell has treated her like a third daughter and there have been times where Tomas has gone into the house to eat or rest and he has found them together on the couch, Sandra’s head on Mrs. Bell’s shoulder as they watch TV.

It is a whole seven days from the moment they began the exorcism, to the moment it ends.

It’s loud. Elijah’s body is arced so dramatically, Tomas is afraid his spine will snap. His mouth is open wide with a blood curdling screech emitting from his throat. Then he falls to the floor, a puppet whose strings have been cut, collapsing in a limp heap. Marcus is at his side in an instant.

Elijah is unconscious, but breathing. Marcus dips his fingers in holy water, touching Elijah’s cheek, but it only serves to wipe some of the dirt from his cheek. The cross does not burn him. Elijah does not scream or claw. He lays still, breathing even, not peaceful, but as close as they have ever seen him.

Tomas gathers Elijah in his arms and Marcus leads them out of the cellar and into the early dawn. The sun hasn’t even begun to rise over the fields and the sky is still dark, though it is paler than night. The dew makes their shoes squeak on the grass as they walk to the front door. The house is silent. The clock reads just before five in the morning.

They only get halfway across the kitchen before there are footsteps on the stairs. A light comes on and Mrs. Bell cries out, thundering down the rest of the steps so quickly, Tomas is scared she will fall. Her hair is flying out of its loose braid, her bathrobe undone and flying behind her as she runs to them.

“Oh my boy,” she sobs, crashing into Tomas to embrace the boy in his arms. She strokes his hair from his face, pressing her lips to his pale, filthy cheeks.

“We should get him cleaned up. He’ll probably need a doctor,” says Marcus, his voice low and gentle.

More footsteps on the stairs. Mr. Bell rubs sleep from his eyes and his mad dash for his son rivals Mrs. Bell’s. He takes Elijah from Tomas and they carry him to the bathroom where they can lay him in the tub. Tomas and Marcus let them look after their son in private.

They sit in silence on the front porch, though the morning air is chilly and neither of them is wearing a jacket. Both are filthy, head to foot, neither having bathed properly in a week. Quick wipe downs in the bathroom with a facecloth hardly counted and both are feeling the sticky sensation of a week’s worth of grime. That being the case, it seemed an unspoken courtesy not to sit in the Bell’s living room, especially considering the light colour of the upholstery.

Side by side, so exhausted they can barely stay upright, Marcus and Tomas watch the sunrise over the fields. The chilly sky turns pink before turning bright, crisp blue. It’s beautiful, like the early dawn rays in Marcus’ hair, catching on gold and silver threads. Tomas can not deny he wants to kiss him.

The screen door squeaks open. Tomas stands for Mr. Bell, who looks just as haggard as they do.

“How is he?” Marcus asks.

For a moment, Mr. Bell can not speak. He stands with his mouth flapping open and no sound coming out, then, without warning, he starts to sob. Dread is a hard pit in Tomas’ stomach. Marcus steps forwards and holds Mr. Bell at arm’s length.

“He’s alright, isn’t he?” Marcus asks, gently.

Mr. Bell nods, though he can not seem to stop crying. Tomas stands respectfully with his hands behind his back, nodding along with Mr. Bell as if they are speaking and Tomas is not just standing there watching a grown man weep like a child.

“Thank you,” Mr. Bell finally rasps between sobs. “Thank you for saving my boy.”

“Go be with your family,” Marcus tells him. “We’ll come back this evening.”

Mr. Bell nods, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Thank you,” he whispers again. Marcus just nods and starts down the stairs to their truck. Tomas smiles at Mr. Bell, then follows his partner.

“Where are we going?” he asks, hopping in the passenger seat.

“To find a motel with hot water and decent beds,” says Marcus. “We’re going to shower and we’re going to sleep before we discuss our next steps with the Bells.”

“Next steps?” Tomas frowns and Marcus starts the truck, giving him a pointed look. “Amos.”

Marcus shrugs and turns them around, speeding back towards the highway. His silence is answer enough.

* * *

The motel is quaint to say the least. It’s newer than many of the places Tomas and Marcus have laid their heads, but the untouched 90s decor doesn’t have the same vintage charm as the decaying mid-century relics one finds scattered off freeway exits. 

Their room has two double beds with matching purple floral quilts. The back wall is wood paneling that, on closer inspection, is actually just cracking, yellowed, oak veneer. There is a ceramic ashtray on the nightstand between the beds right below a sticker that indicates no smoking. The television is a large black plastic thing and the remote is nowhere to be found.

Tomas lets Marcus have the first shower, setting their bags down and searching for clean clothes for both of them. He finds Marcus’ pajamas and opens the bathroom door just a crack to set them on the counter. Hot steam rushes past his cheeks and he breathes in the scent of mildew and cheap soap--a strangely familiar perfume, comforting in its own way. Tomas finds a pair of clean boxers and a tee shirt that passes a sniff test just in time for Marcus to emerge, skin ruddy from the heat. Marcus gives him a mock bow and gestures to the bathroom.

“All yours,” he says, “though there was only one toothbrush. Sorry you’ll have to have it second.”

It’s the sort of thing that would have bothered him back in Chicago, but after everything they have been through, after nights spent sleeping in the truck, days spent without a shower or running water, after exorcisms that lasted weeks, sharing a toothbrush is far from the most unhygienic thing he’s done. He’s only grateful they have one, since he couldn’t seem to find their toiletries kit and he has a sneaking suspicion they left it in the truck.

His mouth tasting of mint rather than the foulness he had only a minute before was a blessing, and when the water runs hot and stays that way for the duration of his shower, Tomas thanks God. The fight is gone from his body and he is left with aching muscles and the cumulative exhaustion of the last week. He barely manages to dry and dress--that he even makes it to his bed is a miracle. Marcus is already fast asleep. Tomas checks the alarm and sets it for eight hours from now, his hand barely off the button before he slips into darkness.

* * *

Tomas wakes with a sudden jerk, as if he’d been falling and suddenly landed. He cracks a bleary eye open; the alarm isn’t set to go off for another half hour, yet the bed across from him is empty, sheets thrown back in a messy bundle. The bathroom door is open and the light is off. Tomas tries to roll over and go back to sleep. He is even more tired than he was before he crawled into bed, if that is even possible, but his mind is awake now and wants to know where his partner has gone. 

He sits up, wincing at his aching shoulders, back, arms, everything really. He climbs out of bed and rushes to his bag. Even in the late afternoon their room is shockingly cold and he is desperate for socks. He finds a pair, and a pair of reasonably clean pants. He doesn’t have any clean button up shirts left and there is no way any of Marcus’ will fit so he is forced to settle for a graphic tee shirt that says “Jerry’s Corn Maze and Pumpkin Patch 2009”. He doesn’t actually remember ever going to such an event, nor does he remember this tee shirt,  so he assumes it must be one of Marcus’. It explains the tight fit, though once he puts a sweater on top, no one should notice.

The toothbrush is still wet when he goes to brush his teeth. Marcus can’t have been gone long, then. He washes his face and runs water through his hair in an attempt to tame the mess on his head. Going to sleep with wet hair never ended particularly well for him. He is reasonably groomed and feeling a little more awake when the door opens and Marcus calls out, “Tomas?”

“In here,” Tomas replies, stepping out of the bathroom. Marcus is wearing stained sweatpants and a leather jacket, and despite looking cleaner than he had in a week, he still looks like a vagrant. His mouth is hidden behind a thick grey scarf, but judging by the way his eyes are crinkling, Marcus is probably grinning, or smirking. He holds styrofoam cups with flimsy plastic lids. Steam wafts from the open one and Tomas can smell coffee. He takes his gratefully, burning his tongue on the first sip. It’s probably a blessing considering it tastes like it was made from stale instant crystals, but it’s warm and has caffeine, so there is very little to complain about.

Marcus sits down on the edge of Tomas’ bed and after a moment, Tomas sits opposite him. Marcus unwinds his scarf, though he leaves his jacket on. He watches Tomas with bright, sharp eyes and the scrutiny makes Tomas hunch his shoulders and stare at his knees. He sips his coffee slowly, giving him something to do with his hands. When he can’t stand it anymore, he looks up at Marcus, who opens his mouth to speak.

“Where were you?” Tomas interrupts. Marcus’s head jerks back and he frowns.

“Getting coffee,” he says, slowly. When Tomas doesn’t respond to his sarcasm, he sighs. “And calling Father Bennett. He’s having Amos transferred to a… facility.”

“What sort of facility?” Tomas presses. His whole body has gone rigid. He feels ready to strike, though he doesn’t know what he would hit.

“Normally they are for rehabilitating priests who have ‘lost their way’.” He says the last part with such disdain, Tomas is certain there is a story there. It is not one he will ask for, not now at any rate, so he lets Marcus continue. “Bennett has assured me, however, that Amos will not be leaving the facility unless it is to face formal charges.”

“We all know how likely that is,” Tomas spits. His fury from before crackles inside him, hot and angry, like any second now something inside him will fall and hit the ground in a shower of sparks and flame.

“Bennett is risking a lot doing this much,” Marcus grouses. “Trying to get him locked up would be like putting a neon target on his back”

“I know.” He does know. This side of the Church is one he tries not to think about much. He forces himself not to dwell on it or he would never have been able to do all the work he did back in Chicago.

“Word will spread. We should get out of town fast.” Marcus goes to stand and then stops, hands on his knees. He looks at Tomas with an unfamiliar expression, his brows drawn tight together and his lips parted ever so slightly. Tomas can feel his desperation to speak. He can hear his mind searching for the words. Tomas can’t let him, but his heart is pounding too hard in his throat to let him interrupt again.

“Tomas,” Marcus beings slowly. “About the demon—“

The alarm begins to screech unbearably loud. Tomas claps hands over his ears while Marcus leaps up to slap it off. Slowly, Tomas peels his hands away from the sides of his head while Marcus stands frozen, breathing hard and staring at the alarm clock as if it were a ticking time bomb. After a moment, Marcus relaxes and laughs. “Well at least we’ll never sleep through it.”

Tomas smiles at him, though it is strained and more from a sense of relief than a sense of humour. “We should go see the Bell’s.”

“Right.” Marcus grabs his wallet and keys. Tomas tucks their room key into his pocket and throws on his own jacket. He wishes he had something nicer to wear, but considering the state Mr. and Mrs. Bell had seen them in over the past week, he thinks maybe they won’t be particular about his dress sense.

The truck awaits, and he lets Marcus drive.

* * *

The sky is red on the horizon, the sun low behind the Bell family farm. Orange and pink light stretches out across the fields, making the world look warmer than it is. The setting sun shines through the driver’s side window, Marcus’ outline glowing in the blinding golden light. Tomas’ mouth is dry and tacky, his insufficient sleep catching up with him already. 

No one greets them as they pull up and the front door is open. Despite having been given free reign on the house for the last week, they still hesitate to walk in, unsure if the open invitation still stands. In the end, Marcus knocks and a little girl, probably around five years old trundles up and throws open the screen door.

Marcus crouches down and smiles at her. “Hello, Ruth. Is your Mum in?”

Ruth nods and opens the door wider for them to step inside. She dashes away the moment the door shuts and they are left alone in the kitchen to hang their coats. The stove still has covered pots on it and the room smells rich and meaty. Tomas remembers how hungry he is right as Mrs. Bell comes around the corner.

“Oh!” She yelps, clutching her chest, then, upon recognizing them, she relaxes. “Sorry Fathers, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Ruth let us in,” says Marcus, scratching the back of his neck. “I hope she knows better than to do that with strangers.” He chuckles, but Mrs. Bell doesn’t. Her eyes are big and red rimmed.

“Come in, come in. Please sit down. We just finished dinner,” she says, ushering them to the kitchen table. “Are you hungry? We have plenty of leftovers.”

Tomas raises his hand to politely decline when his growling stomach answers for them. She smiles and makes herself busy setting two plates. Tomas tries to get up to help, but is shooed away and put back in his chair. “Really, it’s no trouble. It’s the least I can offer.”

There is something frantic about her, like if she stops moving there will be nothing preventing some horrible calamity. She sets their plates down and then hesitates Her entire body seems to vibrate, and her eyes dart to the door and back to them. Marcus gestures to an empty seat and after a pause, she sits, though she is hardly still. Her leg bounces so violently, Tomas can feel the vibrations through the floor.

“Is Elijah awake yet?” Tomas asks, taking his first bite. Mrs. Bell has served them pork loin with roast potatoes, green beans, and applesauce. It’s plain fare, but well made and after months of takeout or greasy diner food, the taste of real meat is heavenly.

“He opened his eyes for a little while after the doctor came, but he’s sleeping now,” she tells them. “He asked about you two.”

“And Sandra? Is she still here?” Marcus interjects.

Mrs. Bell’s face crumbles and she wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm. “She’s locked herself in the guest room since Elijah woke up. I’m worried about her. She’s really such a kind girl, but I can’t believe…” She looks up plaintively. “Would you talk to her?”

Tomas looks to Marcus, who does not turn to him before saying, “Of course.”

Mrs. Bell leaves them to finish eating while she puts the leftovers away and loads the dishwasher. Tomas wolfs down the rest of his food so he can jump up and help, rinsing plates while she loads them. She even lets him elbow her aside so he can scrub the cookie sheet she’d baked the pork on, though she gives him an indulgent look. As he’s about to reach for the rest of the pans, Marcus taps him on the shoulder.

“I’ll finish these, you should go talk to Sandra.”

He opens his mouth to object but, Marcus glances at Mrs. Bell and when he sees she’s not looking, he gives Tomas a pointed look and jerks his head towards the hall. There is a message going over his head, Tomas is sure, but regardless, he follows Marcus’ lead and excuses himself, thanking Mrs. Bell for dinner.

He doesn’t need to be led. He remembers exactly where the guest bedroom is. An untouched tray of supper sits on the floor outside. He steps over it. He hesitates, his hand hovering as he raises his knuckles to the door. He breathes in slowly through his nose before knocking.

The bed creaks and there is a soft, sleepy noise from inside.

“Sandra, it’s me, Father Alexis,” he says. Silence, then he hears sheets rustling.

“Come in,” she says, her voice is muffled.

Sandra sits upright on the bed in jeans and a rumpled flannel shirt buttoned to the neck. Tomas stands in the doorway, unsure if he should close the door behind him, but Sandra makes up his mind for him, standing and ushering him inside. She closes the door with a firm click.

She sits back on the bed, crossing her legs, her bare feet tucked under her knees. Tomas sits in the wicker chair beside it, hands folded in his lap. She looks better than the last time he saw her. Though her hair is wild and sticking up at odd angles, she still seems to be escaping the clutches of sleep. There is some colour in her cheeks, though her eyes are bloodshot and there are still dark circles under them.

Tomas clears his throat. “Have the Bells been treating you well?” he asks.

She nods. “They’ve been very kind to me, lord knows why.” Her snort is disparaging. She looks down at her lap.

“Is something the matter?” Tomas bends so he can look up at her and meet her eye.

“I told them the truth, about Father Amos… and about Elijah,” she murmurs. “They… I don’t know if they believed me.”

Tomas’ heart sinks. “What did you tell them?”

She shrugs, looking away from Tomas so as not to meet his eyes. “I told them what Amos did to Elijah, what he threatened to do to me if Elijah didn’t…” She chews her dry and flaking lips. “Mom wanted me to keep going to youth group, wouldn’t listen, and it all came out when they asked why I didn’t want to go home and I…” Sandra takes a shuddering breath in. Tomas puts a hand on her knee and she flinches. He snatches it away, but she shakes her head and reaches for him, taking his hand in hers. She meets his eyes.

“Father Gregory is talking to Mrs. Bell now. If she didn’t believe you before, she will now,” he reassures her. She squeezes his hands.

“They’ll believe their son can be possessed by the devil, but they wouldn’t believe he could… do  _ that  _ to me.” Her lips draw back to reveal teeth, her nose wrinkling.

“You don’t believe he was?”

“Oh no, I do,” she insists. “I saw him once he stopped coming to church, and after that, I’d believe anything.” She pauses and swallows, her hands still tight around Tomas’. “I hope he’ll be alright.”

“You’re not angry, even after…” Tomas stops, unsure if he’s overstepped.

Sandra shakes her head, her wild hair shaking with her. “He didn’t want to, I know he didn’t.” A small hiccup of a sob escapes her throat, though no tears fall. “Elijah knew it would be worse if he didn’t.” 

“You feel he was protecting you?” Tomas frowns, though perhaps he is finally starting to see the full picture. He prays Sandra was the only one Elijah was forced to violate due to Amos’ twisted sense of morality.

“He  _ was  _ protecting me,” Sandra insists, her hands tightening around Tomas’. “He’s my friend.”

Tomas nods and places his free hand over the hands gripping him. “He’s recovering,” he assures her, “and when he wakes he will need all the friends he can get.”

Sandra sighs, her whole body seems to relax at once and she lets go of Tomas. “Mrs. Bell said I can stay until things get sorted. She’s really nice.”

It’s a relief to know that this girl will not be alone, at least for now, while things are still so fresh. He smiles and it feels genuine. “I’m glad.”

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asks. The worry reappears on her face, her brows creasing, her lip back between her teeth.

“Yes.” No point in lying, she’s been lied to enough already. “Father Gregory and I must move on now our work here is done.”

Sandra’s laugh is sharp and unhappy. “I feel like you have the easy job.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he replies, his heart sinking at her sad eyes, “but you are not alone here, and I think the other youth group kids will need someone strong like you, someone they can trust.”

She looks ready to object, but closes her mouth and looks down at her lap instead. “The church isn’t exactly a sanctuary for any of us.” Her expression is guilty and it makes Tomas’ heart ache.

“God doesn’t care if you never set foot in a church again,” he promises her. “He knows you have been wronged, that you have been failed. He will still love you.”

Sandra does not look particularly convinced. “If I have been failed, was it a man or was it God that failed me?” Her bitterness is unsurprising, but it aches all the same, like she has put her thumb on a bruise and pressed down.

“I believe God sent us here to help.” Tomas swallows, his throat is too tight. “I believe we met that first day for a reason, and I believe God guided me back to you when we felt lost with Elijah. And I know that Amos will never harm anyone again, because you believed I would help you.”

“And if I still blame God? If I hate Him for letting this happen to this town?” she challenges, though there is no real heat behind it anymore.

“He will still love you,” Tomas insists, even as his voice cracks, “just as I love you.”

“Your pep talks are a lot more idealistic than Father Gregory’s,” she says. Her smile is tight, but there is something just a little bit hopeful there.

“You can take both of us with a grain of salt,” he tells her. She snorts, but it’s not derisive.

A sharp knock on the door makes them both jump.

“Yes?” Sandra calls.

“Only me,” says Marcus, opening the door and peering in. “I need to steal Father Alexis away.” His eyes meet Sandra’s and something passes between them, an understanding that Tomas would never be able to comprehend. He’s not sure he wants to.

“Goodbye Sandra,” Tomas says, putting his hand on her shoulder. She stands and wraps her arms around his waist, her face buried in his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she whispers, almost too low for him to hear.

In the hall, Marcus’ expression turns serious. “We have to go. Now.” The urgency in his voice makes Tomas’ stomach drop.

“Is something the matter?”

“Mr. Bell called the church after Sandra told them about Amos,” he whispers.

“Damn,” Tomas curses. “How long do we have?”

“Mrs. Bell was told to keep us occupied until they could send someone. We could have a day, we could have an hour, she wasn’t sure.” Marcus pulls the car keys from his pocket and jingles them. “Mr. Bell doesn’t know she’s warned us, so I think it’s best we hurry along.”

Tomas nods and follows Marcus out the door and down to the car. They don’t see anyone on their way out and no one stops them.

“What did they tell Mr. Bell?” Tomas asks. He keeps glancing at the rear view mirror as if Vatican agents will appear behind them with no warning.

“Some tripe about us being rogue exorcists and enemies of the Vatican.” Marcus smirks. “Only half true, but enough to frighten our dear friends.”

“And she still warned you…” Tomas muses aloud.

“I knew something had gone wrong,” says Marcus, “and we did save her son’s life, it didn’t take much convincing.”

Tomas nods, but it worries him. He hopes her help will not come at any risk to her or her family. He looks into the back seat. Their bags are packed. They’ve not checked out of the motel yet, but the phone number they gave the clerk was fake anyhow and they’ve paid in cash. Nothing tying them here.

Marcus pulls onto the highway, heading north to no particular destination.

“It’s going to be a long night. I don’t want to stop until I’m sure our trail has gone cold.”

Tomas agrees, though he longs for a proper night’s sleep in a real bed, it will have to wait. “Wake me up when you want me to take over,” he yawns.

“Wait,” says Marcus, his voice low. The tone makes Tomas sit upright and glance sideways at his partner out of the corner of his eye, fearful to try and meet his gaze. Marcus is staring straight ahead at the road, but his hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles gone white. “I think…” starts Marcus. “We need… there’s a conversation…”

Tomas’ stomach flips as Marcus struggles to find the words. He wants to object, to brush it off, make a joke, but his tongue is too big in his mouth and his throat is so tight it hurts.

“It’s too dangerous to go on like this, we have to… clear the air,” are the words Marcus settles on. 

“Of course.” The pit in Tomas’ stomach is ice cold. He can’t look anywhere but straight ahead at the road disappearing under them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm already 2k into the final chapter so it shouldn't be too long now, sorry this got so long haha.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A motel by the lake, a long nature walk, and flannel sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, welcome to the final chapter! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I'm certainly not going to stop writing for this fandom any time soon so let me know what you think. Special thanks to Shell_and_Bone who is the best Beta a girl could ask for, I'd take a bullet for you.

The motel is set up so each room is its own cabin with peeling paint and a splintered deck. Rusting furniture sits under a window with a flower box filled with dry and cracking dirt. Tomas peels off his sweater while Marcus fumbles with the lock. When he leans against the railing, Tomas can look down the hill over the other cabins and has a clear view of the lake below. Through the clouds, the dying light of day is muted purples and pinks reflecting off the still waters. The lake is surrounded by pine trees and sandy shores; on the far side is a clubhouse and a short dock where a figure is helping someone in a bright orange lifejacket out of an inflatable kayak. It’s the first real day of spring, the air unseasonably warm. As inviting as the water looks with its pink and gold reflections, he’s sure it’s deceptively frigid. 

“Coming in?” asks Marcus. Tomas takes another moment to absorb the scenery below before following his partner inside.  


The room is clean and the walls are a bright and cheery yellow. The bedspreads are warm red and orange flannel and the kitchenette in the corner has a coffee maker and a wide array of complimentary teabags. There are shelves all around the room with knick knacks and photographs of various celebrities who may or may not have stayed, as well as decks of cards and battered board games.  


Marcus has already claimed a bed, falling face first into the soft sheets. He groans his satisfaction as the mattress shakes under him.  


“Doesn’t even smell like mildew,” he praises, rolling onto his back. Marcus forgets himself for a moment, meeting Tomas’ eye and grinning wide. Tomas looks away almost as quick as Marcus does.  


It’s only been a week since Idaho but the days seem to stretch on forever with the silence between them.  


* * *

_ “It’s too dangerous to go on like this. We have to… clear the air,” are the words Marcus settles on. _   


_ “Of course.” The pit in Tomas’ stomach is ice cold. He can’t look anywhere but straight ahead at the road disappearing under them. _   


_ Marcus is silent, his hands tight on the steering wheel. Tomas has a chance here--he can jump in, defend himself, say something. He can’t find it in himself to say anything at all. The silence grows heavier and the space between them may as well have stretched a thousand miles rather than a few feet. All at once, it’s too far and too close.  _

_ “I don’t know what you thought it meant, but demons will say all kinds of things, it wants to put a wedge between us,” Marcus is speaking faster, and even Tomas can see past his calm facade now. Of course he’s uncomfortable, and that’s the very least of it, anyone would be. _   


_ “Of course,” says Tomas. If there is anything else he can say, he’s lost it the moment he opens his mouth. His heart is thundering so hard in his throat, it’s choking him. His face burns hot and bright with humiliation. _   


_ “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” _   


* * *

_ “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”  _ Tomas hears those words echo over and over in his head. They are an obsession. He hates them. If Marcus wanted to clear the air, he’d given him the perfect out. It didn’t mean anything, it was an accident,  _ I don’t love you.  _

He can’t lie to him, not now. He’s already hidden so much and to deny his feelings right to his face… he doesn't have the will.  


Marcus stands and breezes past him and into the bathroom. The door shuts with a click that echoes in his head, as loud as if the door had been slammed.  


* * *

_ _

_ “I don’t know what you want me to say.” The words are hard and they come out harsh and cruel tumbling off Tomas’ tongue. _   


_ “Something at least,” Marcus snaps. He looks immediately apologetic, his shoulders hunching as he turns back to the road, but the damage is done. Anger rises in Tomas’ throat and comes out his mouth hot and bitter. _   


_ “Don’t you think this is humiliating enough for me!” he shouts, slamming a palm on the dashboard. _   


_ The farm is only just fading from view. Around them there are nothing but fields for miles. Marcus stares ahead at the road, jaw tight as he swallows. _   


_ They are silent for a long time after that. _   


* * *

Tomas digs pajamas out of their bag. By the time he’s pulled them on, his eyes are already drooping. He ignores the row of battered books above the television, the children’s classics and a handful of others whose titles he can’t make out from their heavily creased spines in favour of crawling under the covers. It’s barely seven in the evening, but he gets so little rest anymore. The sheets are as soft as they look. He wraps himself in warm flannel and a heavy comforter, though he’s sure he’ll be sweating by nine. His head sinks into the pillow and he thinks maybe this cabin may have the most comfortable bed he’s been in in years. 

The shower runs and he hears Marcus singing, low and sweet, his voice muffled by the door. He can’t make out the lyrics, but the tune is frustratingly familiar. Eyes closed, he stays awake, listening. He can see Marcus in his mind’s eye, relaxing in the steam, running hands over his cropped hair and down his face, rubbing water out of his eyes. His mouth twitching to form that brief, cat-like smile he makes when content or amused. His chest aches when he pictures that smile, like his ribs will crack open so his traitorous heart can escape. It’s his heart that jams itself in his throat when he tries to speak, to explain, to apologize. It’s his heart that stops him from fixing any of this.  


* * *

_ Tomas hates driving for long stretches. He does his duty and takes his turn, but he finds himself letting Marcus take the wheel more often than not. On long empty roads, he finds himself getting distracted, wandering off into his own head. That’s when Marcus will call out to him just as the front tire crunches on the gravel scattered on the shoulder of the road.  _

_ Now driving like that is even worse because instead of staring off into the distance, he has these loud thoughts demanding his attention, demanding he repeat them, turning them over and over in his head until he can hardly distinguish memory from his own fears. At least when he’s a passenger, he can sleep. _   


_ It makes him a terrible driver at any rate, Marcus comments, but when his good natured ribbing gets him a tight smile and nothing more, he lets Tomas be. _   


* * *

Tomas doesn't realize he’s started to drift until the water shuts off and he’s jolted awake. He keeps his eyes shut anyways, though by the way his stomach is churning now, he knows he won’t be falling asleep again for some time. He turns onto his side so his back is to the bathroom door--Marcus is an expert at spotting when he is faking slumber.  


After only a moment, the bathroom door creaks open and Marcus’ light footsteps cross the room to their bag. There is a wet thump as a towel drops to the floor, followed by rustling as Marcus dresses. Tomas doesn’t think about Marcus dressing, about his long body bending to pick up clothes, to pull on a ratty tee shirt and faded boxers--Tomas’ boxers, since Marcus prefers briefs except for sleeping. It’s small things you get to know about someone living in close quarters for months on end, small things that make his heart try and leap from his chest and it’s so loud he’s sure it can be heard from the next cabin over.  


Marcus crosses the room again and Tomas hears him slide something off a shelf. It’s only when he falls into bed, the springs squeaking under his weight that Tomas hears the book flip open, the soft rustle of pages under a thumb as Marcus skims for the first page.  


He’s painfully curious to know what book Marcus picked out for himself, but he can’t roll over. He’s not sure how much longer he can maintain this maddening silence and if he’s awake, Marcus will want to talk. If Marcus wants to talk, his weakening resolve might just crumble.  


* * *

_ The rest stop parking lot is empty, save for the two of them. Four in the morning and the only light is the yellow glow of the street lamp arcing from in front of the bathrooms. In the dim light, Tomas can see the lone picnic table too close to the entrance on the men’s side to be pleasant to eat at. The benches and table top are spattered white with bird droppings. A power line hangs low over it.  _

_ Marcus steps out to use the restroom and Tomas unbuckles his seatbelt to stretch his legs. He opens the door to dangle his feet over the pavement. Marcus is back all too quickly and instead of going back to the driver’s side, he comes around to stand in front of Tomas. Marcus leans against the side of the truck, staring up into his eyes. _   


_ “Tomas?” Marcus asks. His voice is so gentle. That voice is a fist in his gut knocking all the air out of his lungs. Tomas opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t find the words. It’s been days of this, and he can hardly stand it anymore. _   


_ Marcus sighs and gives up. Tomas tucks his legs back inside the car and Marcus shuts it behind him. In the dark, he covers his face with his hands. _   


_ “I’m sorry,” he whispers into his palms, though he knows Marcus can’t hear him. _   


* * *

“Tomas?” 

Tomas jerks in surprise and curses himself for revealing his deception so easily. He rolls onto his back.  


“Yes?” He glances over at Marcus and sees a green paperback in his hands with worn gold letters on the front--some sort of pulpy thriller judging by the size and style of the font, but he can’t quite read the worn print from where he’s lying.  


Marcus’ mouth twitches into a small smile and Tomas knows he’s been had. “Only wanted to see how you were,” says Marcus as mild as he would be talking about the weather. Nothing between them this past week has been mild, or simple. The weather would be a welcome relief.  


“Sleeping,” he replies with affected annoyance.  


“Liar.”  


Tomas is about to roll over when the accusation pierces him through the chest, pinning him where he lays.  


“You’re stewing. I can hear you thinking from here,” Marcus comments, flipping another page in his book.  


_ ‘And why do you think that is?’  _ Tomas wants to snap. He holds his tongue and finds it in himself to roll over so his back is once again to Marcus.   


* * *

_ Marcus climbs back into the cab, but doesn’t start the engine. He sits with his hands on the wheel. He doesn’t turn his head to look at Tomas, but Tomas can feel him glancing out of the corner of his eye. The scrutiny feels like hands on his body, clutching at him and trying to pull out all his secrets. He hunches his shoulders.  _

_ “I’m about to go mad,” says Marcus, quiet and sad. _   


_ “I told you already. If you want me to leave…” He wants to hurl it like an accusation, but he says it like an apology. _   


_ “I don’t want that,” Marcus quickly replies. “But we can’t go on like  _ this _.” _   


_ “What the demon said—“ _   


_ “Fuck what the demon said!” Marcus snaps. “It was trying to get in your head and you’re letting it win.” _   


_ “I just want to forget about it!” Tomas shouts. Hot all over, he feels sweat prickling the back of his neck and heat prickle the corners of his eyes. _   


_ Marcus stares at him for a moment, shocked, and then looks down at the wheel, lips tight and brows furled. “Right then.” _   


_ He starts the car and pulls out of the lot. _   


* * *

“Seriously Tomas,” Marcus sighs. “Are you alright?”  


Tomas presses his lips tight together, holding his breath so when he releases it, it comes out evenly.  


“I’m fine,” he says, and even sort of sounds it.  


“Bullshit.”  


Tomas sits up in bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. He turns his head so he can look at Marcus properly and for the first time, he sees the hurt plain on his face. Marcus doesn’t look away or try and disguise it. There is a question there, a plea, if only Tomas can decipher it.  


“Are you angry with me?” Tomas turns his head so he is speaking into the crook of his elbow, his forehead resting on his arm. It muffles his voice, but not the meaning of his words.  


“No. Are you angry with me?” Marcus asks, low and even.  


“I’m not angry,” says Tomas. Marcus snorts and the bed springs squeak as he shifts on his bed. “Not at you.”  


“Who then?”  


Tomas buries his head deeper into his elbow. “Who do you think?”  


“I tried to apologize—“  


“I said I’m not angry at you,” Tomas snaps.  


“You’re rather proving my point…” Marcus grumbles.  


* * *

_ _

_ They park in the gravel under a freeway off ramp. It’s so late at night, it’s become early. Tomas cannot sleep no matter how sore his eyes are and no matter how his head throbs. Marcus snores quietly with a sweater tucked under his head and his jacket over his shoulders. His lips are parted ever so slightly and Tomas keeps himself from reaching over to brush fingers across them. The two feet between them feels as wide as the freeway, six lanes of traffic screeching by them so loud he can’t hear even if Marcus were to call out to him. He lets his hand rest next to where Marcus’ has fallen on the seat, so close he can feel the heat from his skin. It’s not enough, it will never be enough, but it lets him close his eyes for a while.  _

* * *

Tomas breathes. It hurts to swallow, but he’s not going to cry.  


“Tomas…”  


“How can you not understand? How are you not as disgusted with me as I am with myself?” He lifts his head so he can stare at Marcus, so he can see when Marcus’ pity turns to anger and he finally knows they are finished.  


“What the fuck are you talking about?”  


Tomas is so hot, he can feel it prickling under his clothes, on his neck, his cheeks, behind his eyes. Marcus leans back, frowning. His eyes bore into Tomas’ as if there are answers for either of them there.  


“What the demon said…” says Marcus slowly. “Was it true?”  


“You didn’t know.” Tomas blinks and it feels as though his eyelids have been coated in paste. His mouth, his throat, his eyes, everything feels thick and dry.  


“I thought…” Marcus speaks carefully, searching for words and sounding them in his mouth before speaking, “I thought it was trying to shame us, to divide us.”  


“I  _ am  _ ashamed!” Tomas cries. “I’m ashamed of what I’ve done. You’re my friend, and I—” he chokes out, and is forced to take a deep, shuddering breath. He stares at his knees. Marcus doesn’t say anything and Tomas cannot make himself look up to see his face. “And I’m ashamed of what I feel.”   


The room is still, so still that the air feels thick and heavy. He can’t hear anything over his own breath, over his own blood pounding in his head. The springs on Marcus’ bed squeak again and the bed dips beside him as Marcus sits. A hand on his shoulder and then he is being pulled into Marcus’ arms. A hand in his hair, thin fingers tangled in his curls.  


“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, holding Tomas to him. With his ear pressed to Marcus’ chest, he can hear his heart pounding loud and quick as his own.  


“Why?” It’s all he can say, the only word he can force out of his throat. He leans desperately into those arms, as if they can steady him as everything spins out from under his feet. Something wet falls on his hair, seeping down through his curls. He realizes the arms around him are shaking. “Marcus?” he asks. He’s a fool, he thinks, selfish and blind.  


He pulls back and Marcus lets him, letting go of his shoulders. Tomas does not let go. Marcus’ cheeks are rough with stubble and damp with tears. He’s blinking fast to clear them, looking up with a self deprecating smile. Tomas wipes his tears away with his thumbs, holding his face in his hands because it’s all he can do.  


“Sorry,” Marcus mumbles, red eyes cast down.  


“I’m in love with you.” The confession tears itself from his throat. It’s been lying in wait too long and it comes out a dry sob, harsh and painful. Marcus stares at him, blinking like he hasn’t even heard. Tomas repeats himself, again and again and again, like a mantra, a prayer. Marcus’ face shifts slowly, his brows drawing together, the lines on his forehead creasing deep and heavy. Before he can stop himself, Tomas surges forwards to kiss him, just once. Even if it’s only once, he has to know.  


There is a moment where he thinks perhaps he has taken Marcus’ charity too far, that he’s made a mistake and misread his kindness. The guilt sinks as hard and fast as a brick in the river, down to the bottom of his stomach, and floats away just as quickly when Marcus finally kisses him back. Marcus lunges for him, crushing their mouths together, grabbing at his shirt and pulling him tight against him. Tomas feels that desperation in his mouth, in the tightness of his hands.  


_ ‘Why are we so afraid of each other?’  _ He silently asks with gentle hands up Marcus’ sides, with soft lips on his jaw, with a face he buries in the crook of his neck. His mouth asks aloud while pressed to Marcus’ skin, so quiet he’s sure Marcus can’t hear it.   


“I can’t let myself hope for things I can’t have,” says Marcus, lips on his forehead, because he has heard him.  


“Do you want me?” It’s not sensual, it’s a plea.  _ ‘Please want me, please love me. I can’t bear to be alone anymore.’ _   


Marcus kisses him again, hands in his hair, so slow and gentle Tomas is scared it’s an apology. The thumb that brushes across his throat makes him shiver.  


“You know you can’t,” says Marcus, voice heavy with regret even as he kisses the corner of his mouth. Tomas chases his mouth--he can’t lose him when he’s so close. Marcus puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back, firm and insistent. “Tomas you’ve made a promise. I can’t—“ Marcus swallows. “I can’t be responsible for breaking your vows.”  


“That’s not your sin to bear,” Tomas murmurs, though it breaks his heart. “If you don’t…  if you’d rather... we can pretend—”  


“Tomas, Tomas, Tomas,” Marcus quickly soothes, fingers in his hair, running across his cheek. “Don’t think for a moment that I could ever reject you.”  


The confession spreads something warm inside him from his throat to his lungs to his groin. Marcus presses lips to his forehead and stays there for a long time, fingers moving slow circles on his scalp, tangled in his hair. He feels as though their blood pulses to one beat and he can feel it echo through their skin.  


“Marcus, please,” he pleads.“Tell me what you want?”  


Marcus swallows and it takes him a few tries before the words finally spill from his lips. “I want you to think about what you want, I—“ Marcus clears his throat. “I want you to know, for sure.”  


Tomas wants… he wants… He reaches for Marcus and clutches his arm like a child, afraid if he lets go, he will slip through his fingers. Marcus puts a warm hand over his, his pulse thrumming. “Just for tonight, Tomas, just think it over.” Marcus cups his cheek, tilting his head so their eyes meet and Tomas can see the naked earnesty there.  


“Tonight…” Tomas says, wetting his dry lips. “Will you stay… here?”  


Marcus frowns and it’s clear he does not catch his meaning. Tomas swallows and tries again. “In this bed, with me.” Marcus frowns deeper. Tomas shakes his head and tries to explain, though his tongue feels so clumsy and inadequate. “Just to sleep,” he assures him.  


Marcus’ slow smile makes his chest feel like it holds the sun, burning its way out of his ribcage. Marcus bends down to kiss the corner of his mouth, small and chaste, but no less affectionate than previous kisses. “Yes,” he says, “I would like that very much.”  


Tomas does not try and kiss him again--it would only reignite the fever he can hardly contain, but to hold Marcus this close… Marcus climbs under the covers and switches out the light. In the dark, it feels so much easier, like they’ve been doing this every night forever. Tomas gathers Marcus in his arms. Marcus, with his long limbs and sharp elbows, has his chin resting on Tomas’ head, their legs tangled together. They will be too hot when they wake up, but Tomas can feel Marcus’ back rise and fall under his hand, he can smell the same pine body wash from the shower, and there is hot breath on his scalp. With the way they are pressed together, there is no way to deny how much they both want this. Tomas can feel it hard against his thigh just as Marcus can feel his own desire.  


It’s been so long since he was held like this, since he’s held someone else. His mouth is pressed to Marcus’ collar, a prolonged kiss. The longer he lets himself have this, the harder it will be to let it go. He cannot, he cannot! There is too much there, a handful of months and everything that’s happened between Chicago and here; he has never felt this much before. Marcus is brave, and honest, and so, so, good--it was impossible not to fall in love him. This man, his teacher, his guide, his friend… in the dark he knows that if he let this go, he would never forgive himself. His vows to God were not meant to stop something like this, something that feels so right.  


In that bed with flannel sheets and a soft mattress, with skinny, pale arms around his shoulders, his own embrace tight around the man he loves, he sleeps more soundly than he can ever remember sleeping in his entire life.  


* * *

He wakes in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and kicks the blanket off so they don’t have to move. They cling hard enough that they might just melt into the same entity. They wake up cold in the morning and pull the blanket back on. Tomas’ arm is asleep and he curses as he gently tries to flex it awake without disturbing his bedmate. When the clock finally reads seven in the morning, neither of them can stay in bed any longer, the force of habit too strong to keep either of them asleep. Tomas kisses Marcus before he loses his nerve and misses his mouth but finds his chin, goatee tickling his lips.  


“Good morning,” says Marcus into his hair, his voice deep and rough with sleep.  


“I can’t feel my right hand,” Tomas replies, his voice muffled by Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus shakes with laughter as he rolls off of Tomas’ arm, warm and genuine. Laughter looks good on him, the way his eyes crinkle and his mouth splits into a grin. Tomas massages the blood back into his numb limb and can’t help but join in his laughter, relief and contentment rolling together to make mirth. Marcus slaps his shoulder, still chuckling, and sits up.  


“I’m going to put the coffee pot on,” says Marcus, forcing himself out of bed.  


“I love you,” Tomas groans his appreciation into a pillow. It rolls out so naturally that for a moment, he doesn’t realize he’s said it. He rolls onto his back, eyes wide to see if he’s overstepped, but Marcus’ surprise is already softening into a warm smile as he turns to the coffee pot.  


Tomas’ entire body melts into the bed, his face pushed up to the warm spot Marcus just vacated. He can smell him there still, all around him in the sheets and blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The memory of the last time he shared a bed with him brings a sharp pang of longing and regret. His face burns thinking of the things he did with the sheets pressed up to his nose, dizzy with desire, afraid that Marcus would return any moment.  


He bites his lip and sits up in bed while Marcus leans against the counter by the coffee machine, long pale legs crossed. Marcus wearing his boxers to bed has given him pause plenty of times before, but he’s not expecting the hot jolt that shoots down his abdomen. It mixes strangely with his guilt.  


He must be making a face, since Marcus asks, “Penny for your thoughts?” Tomas raises an arm to scratch the back of his head and gets a whiff of his nightshirt.  


“Laundromat doesn’t take pennies,” he says, wrinkling his nose.  


Marcus chuckles and pulls down two mugs from the cupboard. “What’s on your mind, Tomas?” He fills the them with coffee, sugar, and dairy free whitener. He sits on the edge of the bed and Tomas takes his cup. It’s such a small thing, coffee in bed, Marcus has done it for him before, usually if he’s the first one up or if Tomas is sick, but something about it feels different now, more intimate.  


“A lot,” he admits, taking his first sip of coffee. The whitener is horrible, but it’s better than having it black, the sugar disguising some of the chemical aftertaste.  


Marcus nods, and drinks his own coffee. “Well, Bennett texted me. We’re going to have to lay low for a bit.”  


“That bad?”  


Marcus shrugs. “Apparently there’s always a fuss any time the two of us reappear. It should blow over. It always does.”  


“I think we should be safe here, for at least a few days,” Tomas suggests. “We’ve been careful and so far noone’s followed us.”  


Marcus pauses, considering their options, his head canted to the side. His long neck is exposed by the stretched collar of the tee shirt he wore to bed, and Tomas cannot help but stare. “You’re probably right,” he says, snapping Tomas out of his daydream, “and I want to give Bennett a few days to make sure our passports will clear the border.”  


Tomas is secretly glad. He likes this motel, he likes the lake and the trees. It almost feels like a holiday. A holiday together. It doesn’t sound half bad put like that.  


They haven't talked about the night before yet, and Tomas isn’t quite ready to ask, so he doesn’t. They dress and gather their clothes. There is a laundry room attached to the main building and they are perilously low on clean undergarments.  


They wander the grounds around the motel, which is built into a steep hillside with trails leading up through the woods behind the cabins all the way to the top of the hill. The view from the top is beautiful. They can see down over the motel and the highway to the lake. Tiny figures paddle in kayaks and they see a single brave figure swimming. Despite the sun peeking through the clouds, the wind still has a chill bite and the water would not have warmed any since winter. Past the lake, they can see mountains in the distance, snowy caps bright white against grey clouds.  


“Do you think we did enough?” Tomas asks.  


Hm?” Marcus glances over at him and then back at the lake, a small frown creasing his brow.  


“For Elijah, and Sandra. Everyone,” Tomas clarifies.  


“No,” he replies, after a long pause. “But you’ll find that nothing you do is ever enough.” Marcus swallows and looks straight ahead.  


“I wish…” Tomas begins, with no clear idea of how to finish.  


“I know,” says Marcus. He finally looks over at Tomas and claps him on the shoulder. “We should head back.”  


Tomas nods, though it takes him a moment to remind his feet how to walk, he eventually follows Marcus back to the trail.  


By the time they climb down the hill back to the motel, their laundry is ready to be flipped and both men are starting to get peckish. There is a diner across the highway and traffic is sporadic at best, so they risk jaywalking the four lanes, hopping the concrete barrier. Marcus stumbles, his foot catching as he leaps it and Tomas is there to catch his arm, steadying him before he can tumble headfirst into oncoming traffic.  


Marcus summons the sole server, a greasy man in his late thirties with a receding hairline. The menus are decorated with kayaks and pine trees. The laminate is peeling from the corners and water damage makes the exposed areas hard to read. They both order the same thing: eggs, toast, bacon, and another round of coffee--this time with real cream.  


The fare is about what they’ve come to expect from a roadside diner in the middle of nowhere, but the coffee is incredible. Both of them have far too many cups and find themselves jittery and overstimulated by the time they leave.  


Marcus laughs as they wander down to the lake. The swimmer from before is a man in his late fifties at least with a white bathing cap and goggles. He sits in the sand with a towel wrapped around his shoulders, seeming oblivious to the cold. They are almost to the start of the lakeside trail when Marcus curses.  


“Our laundry is probably dry,” he says, sighing.  


“The parking lot seemed pretty empty. We can probably leave it until we get back,” Tomas suggests, not looking forward to trekking back across the highway just yet.  


Marcus shakes his head, “I don’t want someone dumping our things.” He purses his lips and then sighs again. “You wait here. I’ll only be fifteen minutes.”  


“I can come with you?” Tomas offers.  


“No point both of us making the trip,” says Marcus. “See if you can’t find a map of the trails while I’m gone.”  


He’ll hear no further objections and he takes off back up the hill. Tomas watches him disappear behind the diner. Once Marcus is gone, he starts back down towards the lake, following the path to the sandy shores. He finds a row of picnic tables and a large sign board with pictures of various local plants and animals, and instructions on what to do if confronted by a bear. There are warnings about littering fines and lighting beach fires, and on the other side, there is a colourful map of the two trails around the lake.  


With nothing left to do, Tomas makes himself comfortable at one of the picnic tables, staring out at the grey water. The air smells cold, like dirt and pine. The sun has disappeared back behind the clouds and he’s glad to have his jacket. With little to do but think, he lets his mind wander back to the night before. The memory feels warm in his chest. He finds himself smiling at the still waters and thinking of the way their legs fit together. Nothing so elegant as two pieces of a puzzle, but two men with no experience and everything to lose; it was why he held on so tightly and why he thinks Marcus did the same. Marcus said he wanted Tomas to take time and think, but he wonders if Marcus were not asking that for himself as well.  


When Marcus returns, he finds Tomas with his chin in his hands, vacant eyes looking out over the lake. His footfalls snap Tomas from his trance and his heart jumps into his throat watching him saunter closer. Feeling brave or foolish, he offers Marcus his arm. “I found us a trail.”  


Marcus smiles his crooked smile, one side of his mouth curling up. “Lead the way,” he says, slipping his arm through Tomas’ like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  


They walk arm in arm for a while until the trail grows too narrow and they are forced to part. Tomas leads them over gnarled roots and overgrown underbrush, thankful that it’s still too cold for most insects to be much of a nuisance. He can imagine in the summer this place would be buzzing with mosquitos.  


After a short uphill climb, they find themselves on a small rock ledge ten feet above the water. The rocks make a natural bench that allows them to sit and look over the edge at the plants and reeds below. Tomas grabs a rock and tosses it as far as he can, watching it splash, the clouds reflected in the surface break and ripple.  


“Tomas…” Marcus is the first to break the silence. They’ve walked in quiet contemplation for nearly an hour and the sudden noise is jarring.  


“Marcus,” he replies. He smiles and he hopes it looks more natural than it feels. His stomach turns over, nerves and this morning’s overindulgence in caffeine making his insides feel too light.  


“It’s so peaceful here.” Marcus doesn’t look at him. His lips curve upwards, but his eyes are tight and his fingers grip the ledge hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “It doesn’t quite feel real.”  


“It’s beautiful,” Tomas agrees, watching Marcus out of the corner of his eye. Marcus has more to say. Tomas can see him holding back, his lips parting and then pressing shut as he swallows his words.  


Tomas gives him more time to speak, but when he doesn’t take it, Tomas speaks instead. “You wanted me to think,” he says. It’s not what he wants to say, but he can’t find the right words, his mind dismissing every sentence he tries to string together.  


“I did,” Marcus replies. His face reveals even less than his words. Tomas stares at him, waiting for elaboration that doesn’t come.  


“If you’d rather I left well enough alone—”  


“No.”  


“Then…” Tomas swallows hard, then shakes his head. “No, you already know how I feel.”  


Marcus watches him with his sharp gaze, his hat pulled low over his eyes, but they still shine bright as the light reflected off the lake catches them. His face, normally so expressive, is tight and restrained. Nausea rises in his throat and Tomas tears his gaze away.  


“I don’t understand what you want,” he admits, when Marcus remains silent.  


Marcus still doesn’t speak for what feels like an age. The seconds tick past and the only sounds are the chirping and fluttering of birds in the underbrush. Tomas sneaks glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but Marcus’ expression doesn’t change. He recognizes him as the tense, withdrawn man he first met at St. Aquinas, a man who only asked questions and betrayed nothing. Nothing until Tomas spoke Gabriel’s name and then there was pain and anger bleeding together, a man who felt everything so deeply he could hardly contain it.    


“Too much,” says Marcus.  


He doesn’t look at him when he says, “You can have it.” He means it more than he’s ever meant anything in his life.  


“Tomas…” Marcus sighs his name. Tomas likes the way it sounds in his mouth; it’s a bolt of lightning behind his ribs to hear it from those lips. He hears Marcus shift, his jacket rustling, and Tomas turns in time to see him stand. Disappointment is a sharp pang in his chest, but he takes Marcus’ hand when it is offered and lets himself be pulled to his feet.  


“Let’s finish our walk and head back,” says Marcus with a soft smile. Tomas doesn’t trust himself to speak.  


He finds himself unable to appreciate the beauty of the rest of their hike. His eyes are always drawn back to the stiff line of Marcus’ shoulders in his worn leather jacket. Marcus appears to be just as distracted as he is, not speaking another word until they have circled back to the first beach with the picnic tables.  


“It’s funny,” he says, staring at the water. “I hardly know what to do with myself now we have a chance to stop somewhere for more than a night.” He laughs and Tomas doesn’t know what to make of it, or whether he is supposed to respond.  


It isn’t until they are back in their cabin, Marcus sprawled on the bed they shared the night before with Tomas standing awkwardly beside it, that he finds the courage to speak again. “You must know,” he sighs, his shoulders falling as he lets out his slow breath. “You must know that that this is slow torture for me.”  


Marcus props himself up on his elbows and then sits upright, legs dangling over the end of the bed. He meets Tomas’ eyes, and for the first time since this morning, his expression is clear. “I always forget what a poet you are,” he says, the words teasing, but his smile is affectionate.  


Marcus pats the bed beside him and Tomas does not hesitate to sit. Marcus puts a hand on his knee.  


“Marcus…”  


“I know,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m… I’m not very good at this.” For the first time, Tomas sees it--Marcus’ doubts and fears that echo his own so clearly.  


“I don’t know your feelings,” says Tomas. “But I promise you, you don’t have to doubt mine. My mind was made up long before last night.”  


Marcus looks as if he might start speaking again, so Tomas kisses him. He presses his forehead to Marcus’ and Marcus doesn’t pull away. Instead, he wraps a hand around the back of Tomas’ neck. “Tell me that you want this, too,” Tomas pleads.  


“I don’t want you to regret anything,” Marcus whispers against his lips.  


“I could never,” Tomas promises, sealing it with a kiss. His heart swells when Marcus presses into him, lips gently parting against his. He takes Marcus’ face in his hands and kisses him again and again, on his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his brow, smoothing age worn creases with his lips. He has him now and he will not let him go. Tomas slides hands down his cheeks, down his neck, over his shoulders. He runs his palms over Marcus, feeling the lean body beside him. Marcus is nothing like last night, the ferocity and desperation is gone, replaced with tenderness and reverence. Every time they part, Marcus is staring at him with wonder in his eyes, like Tomas is more than he is, like he is someone precious.  


They lay side by side. It has been so long since Tomas touched anyone, since he has been touched. Just feeling Marcus’ fingers on his throat, his cheek… it’s as intoxicating as feeling a body under his own hands, solid and real. And to be kissed… He doesn’t remember kissing being like this. His body tingles with nervous energy, not unpleasantly. He could do nothing but this, lay together and kiss, for hours, forever.  


“I never thought… I never would have guessed that you…” says Marcus, his voice just as awed as his gaze.  


“I did. I do,” Tomas promises.  


Marcus lets out a self deprecating chuckle, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”  


“Probably something very bad,” he teases, hands wandering lower, past Marcus’ hips to his backside. Marcus tenses beside him, freezing for just a moment before relaxing back into his arms.  


“Is everything alright?” he breathes in Marcus’ ear.  


“Yes,” Marcus replies, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But you should know…” he pauses, wetting his lips. “I was raised by the Church, and I was very young when I took my vows.”  


Marcus watches him with a nervous expression, his hand clenched tight around the fabric of Tomas’ shirt. Tomas doesn’t understand, so Marcus takes pity on him. “There weren’t a lot of opportunities for sex, Tomas. Not any, actually.”  


It takes him longer than it should to properly comprehend what he’s heard. “You mean,” he starts, slow and deliberate, in case he’s missing something. “Not ever?”  


“Don’t act so surprised,” Marcus mumbles, turning his face into the comforter.  


“No, Marcus... Marcus,” Tomas says quickly, reaching for his cheek so he can turn Marcus to face him. “It’s only… you’re not a priest anymore... I would have thought…” He doesn't really know what he thought, but in hindsight it makes more sense than the alternative.  


“Between Casey and stopping the Pope from being assassinated… not really a lot of time for trawling,” Marcus laughs, still embarrassed.  


Tomas runs a hand through Marcus’ cropped hair over the stubble on his hot cheek. “If you…” Tomas pauses to find the words, rearranging them in his head, “I would be happy with just this.” He kisses the corner of Marcus’ mouth to clarify his meaning.  


Marcus laughs at him. “I’m not a fucking debutante.” He rolls onto his back, covering his face with his hands, “Oh Tomas, the only chastity I’m worried about is yours.”  


Tomas shakes his head. “I thought about it,” he explains. “Last night.”  


“And?” Marcus asks, uncovering his face to look at him. Laying on their backs like this, side by side, their fingers brush and Tomas takes Marcus’ hand in his.  


“And the way I feel about you,” says Tomas, his thumb resting against the corner of Marcus’ mouth. “I… I think God lead me to you for a reason, and if meeting you was His will… Well then, He can not possibly object.”  


Marcus grins, chuckling. He takes Tomas’ wrist so he can press his lips to the palm of his hand. “Well,” he says mischievously, “if God wills it, who are we to deny Him?”  


Tomas leans into him so he can catch Marcus’ mouth with his own, kissing him slow and languid. Marcus matches his pace, sliding fingers up his neck so he can bury them in his curls. For once they have time, so Tomas takes it and uses it. He slips his hand up under Marcus’ shirt to stroke the skin above his belt, to slide a hand over his hip and grip it with firm intent, tugging Marcus closer so they can slide their thighs between each other’s legs.  


Marcus lets out a low groan, burying his face in Tomas’ neck. Tomas feels his hot breath on his skin when Marcus curses.  


“I wanted so badly to be close to you,” Tomas confesses with his lips on Marcus’ forehead. He tastes salt and kisses the deep crease between his brows, then his eyelids, then finally his mouth again.  


“You thought about it.” Marcus gasps when Tomas wraps his legs around his thigh to pull him closer, to grind against his hip.  


Tomas nods, Marcus’ cheek pressed flush against his own, his mouth inches from his ear. “I thought about you.”  


“Tell me.”  


He is in no position to deny him, not when Marcus brushes his lips over Tomas’ throat. “I wanted to kiss you,” he says, barely catching his breath when Marcus’ tongue tastes his neck, just below his jaw. “And I wanted to be touched, to be held.”  


“Absolutely depraved, Tomas,” Marcus teases, just as breathless as he is. He wraps arms around his middle, holding him tight. “Did you mean like this?”  


“Yes, I did. I do.” He bites his lip, closing his eyes as he grows hot with shame. “Why do you need me to say it?”  


Marcus stops kissing his neck, easing Tomas out of his embrace so he can run his thumb over his furrowed brow. He kisses his cheek and strokes his hair, slow and gentle. “Because I like to hear it,” says Marcus, fingers idly massaging the nape of Tomas’ neck. “Because I’m not young anymore, and I was never as beautiful as you. Call it vanity, if you like,” he tells him, fingers dragging across his mouth. Tomas’ lips part so he can taste the tip of his thumb. “It feels good to be wanted, don’t you think?”  


Yes,  _ yes,  _ to be wanted, it was… With his lips on Marcus’ fingers, he finds one and takes it in his mouth, pressing his tongue to rough, scarred skin. Marcus  _ is  _ beautiful, and imperfect, sharp around the edges with a will as hard as iron. Tomas sucks on his finger so he can hear him moan, so he knows what Marcus sounds like when he’s  _ wanted.  _ When Tomas takes in a second finger, Marcus lets out a breathless laugh.   


“That is absolutely filthy,” Marcus praises. He watches Tomas, his eyes dark with desire. Tomas meets his gaze, Marcus’ second knuckle sliding back inside his mouth. “Christ,” Marcus swears.  


Tomas pops his fingers out of his mouth. “You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” he chastises, kissing Marcus’ spit slick knuckles. Marcus groans and crushes his hips against Tomas’ thigh. Everything is hot and sweet, even Marcus cursing into his mouth before their lips meet again and again. Side by side, they move together, slow but firm. Their arms crush their bodies together so tightly, Tomas is afraid to let go even to undress.  


“Tell me about the last time you thought about it,” Marcus swallows hard. “About me.” He couldn’t say no if he wanted to, not with Marcus’ body so close to his. He feels as though they could melt into each other. Besides, he doesn’t want to say no.  


“We slept together, in the same bed,” Tomas mumbles against his cheek. He speaks between gasps, between kisses.  


“I remember,” Marcus says, fists full of the back of Tomas’ shirt.  


“You were gone when I woke up,” he tells him. It’s hard to speak, but it’s less the shame now, more the desire hot in the pit of his stomach, in his groin, his throat, on his lips. “The bed was still warm and I could… if I closed my eyes, it still felt like you were there. You were all around me, on your pillow, in the sheets…” he chokes, remembering the wanting and the shame, that deep sense that he was doing something wrong, something dirty. Maybe it was, but it hardly matters now when Marcus is rolling him onto his back, rough hand smoothing his cheek.  


“Show me?” Marcus asks, hand flat on Tomas’ belly.  


It should be humiliating, he thinks, reaching for his zipper. He should be ashamed, but he finds that the hot, twisting feeling does not come, not when Marcus looks at him like that. Marcus watches him like he’s something wondrous, one hand on his cheek so Tomas cannot look away. There is no room for shame when he kisses him. Marcus watches him with such intensity, his bright eyes missing nothing.  


Marcus is all consuming; the rest of the world disappears with every kiss, like patterns in the sand slowly washed away by the rising tide. The hand on his cheek is all he can feel, those blue eyes are all he can see, and those lips are all he can taste. Marcus is touching himself as well; Tomas glances down to watch those thin fingers slide across pale flesh. His moan catches in his throat and he chokes on it.  


“You want this? Truly?” Tomas pants, his mouth pressed to Marcus’ cheek and his lips dragging on his stubble. He tastes salt, he tastes sweat, he tastes skin, and it makes him want to taste every inch of flesh before him, to devour him entirely.  


“God, yes,” Marcus breathes in his ear. “Fuck,” he curses, kissing Tomas hard enough to hurt as he comes. His body tense, Tomas feels Marcus catch his breath, slumping limp and boneless beside him.  


Tomas climaxes with Marcus’ mouth on his. Everything is hot and throbs with his pounding heart. Marcus’ hand is stroking his hip with lethargic fingers, his palm so hot it feels as though it will burn.  


“Marcus…” is all he can say. “I…” There is no thought to finish. He lays in bed, inches from the man he loves above all else, and maybe, shamefully, above God Himself. It doesn’t seem quite real. He’s hardly undressed, yet he feels more raw, more naked than he’s ever felt, like everything has been wrung out of him. Every shameful thought, every guilty glance has been exorcised from his body with gentle words and bruising kisses.    


It all comes out at once when he sees the tears shining in Marcus’ eyes. He cries because he is happy, but he also cries for the shame that held him back, that denied him everything. He tells Marcus, who weeps for him and perhaps for himself, though he smiles through the tears.  


“I know. Christ, I know.” Marcus’ rough hands clasp his cheeks so tenderly. He knows it even before the words spill from Marcus’ lips, whispered against his mouth, that he is wanted, that he is loved.  


A love like this--it makes him feel as though he could wrestle the Devil himself and win. He would, too; he would do anything for this man, and with him, he  _ could  _ do anything. At least that is how it feels with those arms around him, with those lips on his skin, with spilt passion cooling between them and a new fire burning hot and bright in his belly.   


“We’re going to win,” he tells Marcus.  


“Yeah,” Marcus replies. He doesn't need to ask what they plan on defeating before he says, “We’re going to win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've ever finished a multichapter wip so I'm feeling relatively pleased with myself right now. As always, hit me up on tumblr at possiblydistasteful.tumblr.com I would love to talk headcanons, bizarre AUs, or whatever else you can think of.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure yet when I'll have part two up, probably won't be able to start work on it until after this week because all my final projects are coming due right now. As always hit me up on tunglr


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